Sticky Fingers By Edgar Albert Guest

Sticky Fingers

Wife says that I should be ashamed
To wear such garments as I do,
Full many a time has she exclaimed:
‘A month ago that suit was new,
Now look at all the dreadful stains
That mar the coat and spoil the vest;
It seems to me if you’d take pains
Your clothing wouldn’t get so messed.’

But I am proud of all those stains,
I do not care for garments clean,
For every shining mark explains
Where sticky little hands have been;
Each smudge is but a symbol of
A roguish youngster’s fond caress,
A badge of trusting, constant love,
A token of real happiness.

I may be careless in my way,
Perhaps my clothes are a disgrace,
But when that baby comes to play
And holds me in her fond embrace
I love her sticky fingers more
Than any tailored suit of mine,
And she may thumb my garments o’er,
For every spot she leaves is fine.

I wish no spotless coat and vest,
If baby hands I have to check;
It matters not how I am dressed,
I want her arms about my neck.
Yes, finger-marked my clothes may be,
But they are marks I’m proudest of,
Let sticky fingers come to me
And stamp me with their seals of love.

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