A Fledgling Poem by John Bannister Tabb
A Fledgling
'Why is it, little chick,' I said
'That you so ragged go?'
'Alas,' he answered, 'father's dead
And mother cannot sew.
'She does her very best to lay,
Till I have learned to crow;
But bread is rising every day,
And eggs, alas, are low.'
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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4/25/2024 11:19:51 AM # 1.0.0.1119
