Poems (Mansfield)/The Black Monkey

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THE BLACK MONKEY
My Babbles has a nasty knackOf keeping monkeys on her back.A great big black one comes and swingsRight on her sash or pinny strings.It is a horrid thing and wildAnd makes her such a naughty child.
She comes and stands beside my chairWith almost an offended airAnd says:—"Oh, Father, why can't I?"And stamps her foot and starts to cry—I look at Mother in dismay . . .What little girl is this, to-day?
She throws about her nicest toysAnd makes a truly dreadful noiseTill Mother rises from her placeWith quite a Sunday churchy faceAnd Babbles silently is ledInto the dark and her own bed.
Never a kiss or one Goodnight,Never a glimpse of candle light.Oh, how the monkey simply flies!Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,Runs from the room with might and main,"Father dear, I am good again."
When she is sitting on my kneeSnuggled quite close and kissing me,Babbles and I, we think the same—Why, that the monkey never cameOnly a terrible dream maybe . . .What did she have for evening tea?
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