From The Daily Missoulian, December 7, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.
There seems to be no place for me around home anywhere,
For every time I make a move maw says, “Don’t go in there.”
There isn’t a clothes press in the house that they’ll let me go in.
Maw’s bedroom has been closed and locked. They seem to be agin’
My rummagin’ around the place like I have always done.
I have so very little space it ain’t a bit of fun.
When paw comes home at suppertime I can’t go to the door
And meet him like I used to each evening any more.
He don’t come in the sittin’ room, but scoots right off upstairs,
Just like he was a-bein’ chased by taggers or by bears.
They always talk in whispers, paw and maw, then look at me
As though I was some circus freak that they had paid to see.
And when they talk out loud they spell the things they want to say.
It looks as though, by gingerpop, that I am in the way.
I heard paw spell out “polar bear” to maw the other night,
It sorter got me guessin’, for he didn’t spell it right.
Of course I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes or anything like that,
But I’ve been lookin’ round a bit and found out quick as scat
They’re framing up some deal on me. I don’t know as I ought,
But I’ve dug up most of the things that they went out and bought.
Of course you musn’t say a word, for I must act surprised
So that their secret schemes and plans may all be realized.
They’ve got to have their little joke; they have it every year,
And start in to ignorin’ me when Christmas time draws near.
It used to be a mystery, but we will let that pass,
For I kin see through it nowadays as plain as any glass.