When Willie was a little boy,
Not more than five or six,
Right constantly did he annoy
His mother with his tricks.
Yet not a picayune cared I
For what he did or said,
Unless, as happened frequently,
The rascal wet the bed.
Closely he cuddled up to me,
And put his hand in mine,
Till all at once I seemed to be
Afloat in seas of brine.
Sabean odors clogged the air
And filled my soul with dread,
Yet I could only grin and bear
When Willie wet the bed.
'Tis many times that rascal has
Soaked all the bedclothes through,
Whereat I'd feebly light the gas
And wonder what to do.
Yet there he lay so peaceful-like,
God bless his curly head!
I quite forgave the little tyke
For wetting of the bed.
Ah, me! Those happy days have flown,
My boy's a father, too,
And little Willies of his own
Do what he used to do.
And I, ah! all that's left for me
Are dreams of pleasures fled,
My life's not what it used to be
When Willie wet the bed!
fathermag.com