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Poem by Clinton Scollard


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!

Clinton Scollard

Clinton Scollard's other poems:
  1. Dirge for a Sailor
  2. The Cripple
  3. The Tides
  4. The Little Creek Coonana
  5. The Mist and the Sea

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