Father’s Chore By Edgar Albert Guest

Father’s Chore

My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and keep still;
He can cut himself while shaving an’ not swear;
If a ladder slips beneath him an’ he gets a nasty spill
He can smile as though he really didn’t care.
But the pan beneath the ice-box- when he goes to empty that-
Then a sound-proof room the children have to hunt;
For we have a sad few minutes in our very pleasant flat
When the water in it splashes down his front.

My Pa believes his temper should be all the time controlled;
He doesn’t rave at every little thing;
When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier has rolled
A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing.
But the pan beneath the ice box- when to empty that he goes-
As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt;
From the kitchen comes a rumble, an’ then everybody knows
That he splashed the water in it down his front.

Now the distance from the ice box to the sink’s not very far-
I’m sure it isn’t over twenty feet-
But though very short the journey, it is long enough for Pa
As he travels it disaster grim to meet.
And it’s seldom that he makes it without accident, although
In the summer time it is his nightly stunt;
And he says a lot of language that no gentleman should know
When the water in it splashes down his front.

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