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.

READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM