| |
| FATHER is quite the greatest poet | |
| That ever lived anywhere. | |
| You say you’re going to write great music— | |
| I chose that first: it’s unfair. | |
| Besides, now I can’t be the greatest painter and | 5 |
| do Christ and angels, or lovely pears | |
| and apples and grapes on a green dish, | |
| or storms at sea, or anything lovely, | |
| Because that’s been taken by Claire. | |
| |
| It’s stupid to be an engine-driver, | 10 |
| And soldiers are horrible men. | |
| I won’t be a tailor, I won’t be a sailor, | |
| And gardener’s taken by Ben. | |
| It’s unfair if you say that you’ll write great | |
| music, you horrid, you unkind (I sim- | 15 |
| ply loathe you, though you are my | |
| sister), you beast, cad, coward, cheat, | |
| bully, liar! | |
| Well? Say what’s left for me then! | |
| |
| But we won’t go to your ugly music. | 20 |
| (Listen!) Ben will garden and dig, | |
| And Claire will finish her wondrous pictures | |
| All flaming and splendid and big. | |
| And I’ll be a perfectly marvellous carpenter, | |
| and I’ll make cupboards and benches | 25 |
| and tables and … and baths, and | |
| nice wooden boxes for studs and | |
| money, | |
| And you’ll be jealous, you pig! | |
| |
