Grown Up

Last year he wanted building blocks,

and picture books and toys, and saddle horse that gayly rocks, and games for little boys,

But now he is big and all that stuff his whim no longer suits.

He tells us that he is 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 train, a train with a caboose.

Besides he still demands a pair of big, black rubber boots.

The baby that we used to know has somehow slipped away.

And when and where he changed to go not one of us can say.

But there is a helter-skelter lad  that to me nightly scoots,

and boldly demands that Santa bring him a pair of rubber boots.

I'll bet old Santa Claus will sigh when down the chimney he comes,

and seek the babe that used to lie and suck his little thumbs,

and finds within that little bed a grown up boy who hoots

at building blocks, and wants instead a pair of rubber boots.

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