(Clinton Scollard)






Fraidie-Cat


I shant tell you whats his name:
When we want to play a game,
Always thinks that hell be hurt,
Soil his jacket in the dirt,
Tear his trousers, spoil his hat,
Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!

Nothing of the boy in him!
Dasnt try to learn to swim;
Says a cowll hook; if she
Looks at him hell climb a tree;
Scart to death at bee or bat,
Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!

Claims therere ghosts all snowy white
Wandering around at night
In the attic; wouldnt go
There for anything, I know;
Blieve hed run if you said Scat!
Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!




- http://eng-poetry.ru/. eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru