My Future

Let's make him a sailor, said Father,
And he will adventure the sea.
A soldier, said Mother, is rather
What I would prefer him to be.
A lawyer, said Father, would please me,
For then he could draw up my will.
A doctor, said Mother, would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill.

Said Father: Let's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be.
Said Mother: I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me.
Said Father: Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool.
Said Mother with temper: Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool.

Said Farther: Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf.
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
That's right - he takes after yourself.
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: my ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me.
. . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!