Grown Up

Last year he wanted building blocks,

And picture books and toys,

A saddle horse that gayly rocks,

And games for little boys.

But now he's big and all that stuff

His whim no longer suits;

He tells us that he's old enough

To ask for rubber boots.

Last year whatever Santa brought

Delighted him to own;

He never gave his wants a thought

Nor made his wishes known.

But now he says he wants a gun,

The kind that really shoots,

And I'm confronted with a son

Demanding rubber boots.

The baby that we used to know

Has somehow slipped away,

And when or where he chanced to go

Not one of us can say.

But here's a helter-skelter lad

That to me nightly scoots

And boldly wishes that he had

A pair of rubber boots.

I'll bet old Santa Claus will sigh

When down our flue he comes,

And seeks the babe that used to lie

And suck his tiny thumbs,

And finds within that little bed

A grown up boy who hoots

At building blocks, and wants instead

A pair of rubber boots.