pot

You know the old saying your goose is cooked Whenever I hear that I really get shooked I hear there's some truth to that nasty old saying I'm valuable because of the many eggs I keep laying You have to learn how to run really fast If you don't, how long will your life last I've learned to do more then just waddle You'd be smart to use me as a role model Don't get caught walking around here alone The inside of a kettle will be your next home Keep your bill shut, don't utter a honk or quack If you get noticed it may be your last act Author Eileen Clark

Da spreeng ees com’ but oh, da joy
Eet ees too late !
He was so cold, my leetla boy,
He no could wait.

I no can count how manny week,
How manny day, dat he ees seeck,
how manny night I seet an’ hold
da leetla hand dat was so cold.

He was so patience,oh, so sweet.
Eet hurts my throat to theenk of eet:
An all he evra ask ees w’en
Is gona com’ da spreeng agen.

Wan day, wan brighta sunny day,
He see across da alleyway,
Da leetla girl dat’s liven’ dere
Ees raise her window for da air,
And put outside a leetla pot
of w’at you call?-forget-me-not.

So smalla flower, so leetla theeng!
But steel eet mak’ hees hearta seeng.
“Oh, now, at las’,ees com’ da spreeng!
Da leetla plant ees glad for know,

Da sun ees com’ for mak’ eet grow.
So too, I am grow warm and strong.
So lika dat he seeng hees song.

But, ah, da night com’ down an den,
Da winter ees sneak back agen,
An in da alley, all da night
Eees fall da snow, so cold, so white.

An’ cover up da leetla pot
Of w’at you call ? for-get-me-not.
All night da leetla hand I hold.

Eees grow so cold, so cold, so cold !
Da spreeng ees come, but oh, da joy,
Eet ees too late!
He was so cold, my leetla boy,
He no could wait.

by Thomas Augustine Daly

Thomas Augustine Daly was an Irish-American poet who is more commonly referred to as T A Daly. He was a very popular writer, mainly poetry, but he had many articles published in newspapers and magazines. He also made a good living on the lecturing and after-dinner speaking circuit where he would often recite his own poetry to appreciative audiences. His style was mostly humorous and he wrote in a curious mixture of mock Italian-American and Irish-American dialect.

My mom read this often to my brothers and me and every time it made me cry. The image and poem was in this book

The New Wonder World 1939 ~ The Child In The Home