This morning Grandma scolded meFor a thing she thought I ’d done.She says she baked two cherry-pies,And only could find one.So she said of course I took it;I must say I don’t seeWhy, when anything is missing,They should always pick on me!
It ‘s: “Tommy, where ’s my razor?”“Tom, you naughty child,Where did you put my scissors?You ’re enough to drive one wild!”
It ‘s only me that tracks in mud,And scatters things about;If I speak above a whisper,They all say, “Tom, don’t shout!”
Well, I ‘ve run away and left them—And I won't go back no more;And then they ‘ll find that things get lostJust as they did before.And I guess that they ‘ll feel pretty mean,And maybe Mother ‘ll cry;And I think—perhaps—if I went home—I’d get that other pie!
