To A Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I Am Wearing Them by Ogden Nash
Let's straighten this out, my little man, And reach an agreement if we can. I entered your door as an honored guest. My shoes are shined and my trousers are pressed, And I won't stretch out and read you the funnies And I won't pretend that we're Easter bunnies. If you must get somebody down on the floor, What in the hell are your parents for? I do not like the things that you say And I hate the games that you want to play. No matter how frightfully hard you try, We've little in common, you and I. The interest I take in my neighbor's nursery Would have to grow, to be even cursory, And I would that performing sons and nephews Were carted away with the daily refuse, And I hold that frolicsome daughters and nieces Are ample excuse for breaking leases. You may take a sock at your daddy's tummy Or climb all over your doting mummy, But keep your attentions to me in check, Or, sonny boy, I will wring your neck. A happier man today I'd be Had someone wrung it ahead of me.