Father's Chore

My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and keep still;

He can cut himself while shaving an’ not swear;

If a ladder slips beneath him an’ he gets a nasty spill

He can smile as though he really did n't care.

But the pan beneath the ice-box — when he goes to empty that —

Then a sound-proof room the children have to hunt;

For we have a sad few minutes in our very pleasant flat

When the water in it splashes down his front.

My Pa believes his temper should be all the time controlled;

He does n't rave at every little thing;

When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier has rolled

A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing.

But the pan beneath the ice box — when to empty that he goes —

As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt;

From the kitchen comes a rumble, an’ then everybody knows

That he splashed the water in it down his front.

Now the distance from the ice box to the sink's not very far —

I'm sure it is n't over twenty feet —

But though very short the journey, it is long enough for Pa

As he travels it disaster grim to meet.

And it's seldom that he makes it without accident, although

In the summer time it is his nightly stunt;

And he says a lot of language that no gentleman should know

When the water in it splashes down his front.