My father knows the proper way The nation should be run; He tells us children every day Just what should now be done. He knows the way to fix the trusts, He has a simple plan; But if the furnace needs repairs, We have to hire a man. My father, in a day or two Could land big thieves in jail; There's nothing that he cannot do, He knows no word like "fail." "Our confidence" he would restore, Of that there is no doubt; But if there is a chair to mend, We have to send it out. All public questions that arise, He settles on the spot; He waits not till the tumult dies, But grabs it while it's hot. In matters of finance he can Tell Congress what to do; But, O, he finds it hard to meet His bills as they fall due. It almost makes him sick to read The things law-makers say; Why, father's just the man they need, He never goes astray. All wars he'd very quickly end, As fast as I can write it; But when a neighbor starts a fuss, 'Tis mother has to fight it. In conversation father can Do many wondrous things; He's built upon a wiser plan Than presidents or kings. He knows the ins and outs of each And every deep transaction; We look to him for theories, But look to ma for action.
Edgar Guest - 1881-1959
Bulb Planting Time
Last night he said the dead were dead And scoffed my faith to scorn; I found him at a tulip bed When I passed by at morn. "O ho!" said I, "the frost is near And mist is on the hills, And yet I find you planting here Tulips and daffodils." "'Tis time to plant them now," he said, "If they shall bloom in Spring"; "But every bulb," said I, "seems dead, And such an ugly thing." "The pulse of life I cannot feel, The skin is dried and brown. Now look!" a bulb beneath my heel I crushed and trampled down. In anger then he said to me: "You've killed a lovely thing; A scarlet blossom that would be Some morning in the Spring." "Last night a greater sin was thine," To him I slowly said; "You trampled on the dead of mine And told me they are dead."