new zealand electronic poetry centre

Lola Ridge


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Baby’s Sick
     

I’ve laid it all on Shamrock –
            Ten to one.
The knowing ones are betting
            On old Sun.
I got a wire this morning –
            ”Come home, quick;
Mamma badly wants you –
            Baby’s sick!”

The house is oddly quiet –
            To my joy!
And yet I think I kind of
            Miss the boy.
His eyes are slow and heavy,
            Breathing quick;
His little pulse is flying –
            Baby’s sick.

He scarce looks out the doorway,
            Nothing cares
For joys of Alpine climbing
            On the chairs.
There lie his little shovel
            And his pick;
No need to watch the pathway –
            Baby’s sick.

The house is all on tip-toes:
            Shadows creep
And crouch about in corners –
            He’s asleep.
”Don’t let the news-boy wake him!
            Mabel, quick!
Run out and take the paper –
            Baby’s sick.”

Here’s word about the races.
            Oh, I say!
The Sun has won the Steeple;
            Second – May.
Old Shamrock kicked the hurdle –
            Let him kick!
The Cup may go to – pieces!
            Baby’s sick.

 

 

‘Baby’s Sick,’ Bulletin 30 Jul 1903: 3. Lola. ML.
See also Verses 1905: 54-55.




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Last updated 28 May, 2013