SUNDAY DINNER

The butcher comed and he bringed no meat, But he crawled in the poultry pen, And he putted his hand among they feet, And catched the father hen. He catched it as hard as anything, But it didn't once crowed at all, And he tied its feet with a bundle of string And hanged it up on the wall. And now and again its wings went flap, But that didn't frighten me! I runned for my little brother chap To come outside and see. The father hen's not crowing now, The ittooest ittoo bit; We're going to tell our father how The butcher's hurted it! Our father has mended the bathroom door And the leg of the rocking chair: He mended the fence long time before, And he bought my horse some hair. He made the bikes so they wouldn't squeal, And he made the bunny to talk; He hammered some tacks in the engine wheel When the engine couldn't walk. And he cured the teddy when it was dead, And he mended the barrow for me— So father will mend the rooster's head Before he haves his tea.

WHISPER! Tip-toe, tip-toe, through the house, 'Round the pantry, down the hall. P'raps he's only just a mouse; P'raps he's nuffing real at all.