Classic Poem

You can talk about your music, and your
operatic airs,
And your phonographic record that Caruso's
tenor bears;
But there isn't any music that such wondrous
joy can bring
Like the concert when the kiddies and their
mother start to sing.

When the supper time is over, then the mother
starts to play
Some simple little ditty, and our concert's under
way.
And I'm happier and richer than a millionaire
or king
When I listen to the kiddies and their mother
as they sing.

There's a sweetness most appealing in the trilling
of their notes:
It is innocence that's pouring from their little
baby throats;
And I gaze at them enraptured, for my joy's
a real thing
Every evening when the kiddies and their mother
start to sing.