This morning Grandma scolded me For 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 see Why, 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 lost Just 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!
