How odd it is that our Papas
Keep taking us to cinemas,
But still expect the same old scares,
The tiger-cats, the woolly bears,
The lions on the nursery stairs
To frighten as of old!
Considering everybody knows
A girl can throttle one of those
While choking with the other hand
The captain of a robber band,
They leave one pretty cold.
The lion has no status now;
One has one's terrors, I'll allow,
The centipede, perhaps the cow,
But nothing in the Zoo;
The things that wriggle, jump or crawl,
The things that climb about the wall,
And I know what is worst of all--
It is the earwig--_ugh_!
The earwig's face is far from kind;
He must have got a spiteful mind;
The pincers which he wears behind
Are poisonous, of course;
And Nanny knew a dreadful one
Which bit a gentleman for fun
And terrified a horse.
He is extremely swift and slim,
And if you try to tread on him
He scuttles up the path;
He goes and burrows in your sponge
And takes one wild terrific plunge
When you are in the bath;
Or else--and this is simply foul--
He gets into a nice hot towel
And waits till you are dried,
And then, when Nanny does your ears,
He _wrrriggles_ in and disappears:
He stays in there for years and years
And _crrrawls_ about inside.
At last, if you are still alive,
A lot of baby ones arrive;
But probably you've died.
How inconvenient it must be!
There isn't any way, you see,
To get him out again;
So, when you want to frighten me
Or really give me pain,
Please don't go on about that bear
And all those burglars on the stair;
I shouldn't turn a tiny hair
At such Victorian stuff;
You only have to say instead,
"THERE IS AN EARWIG IN YOUR BED"
And that will be enough.