Author Harry Graham Baby roused its father's ire, By a cold and formal lisp, So he placed it on the fire, And reduced it to a crisp. Mother said, " Oh, stop a bit! This is over doing it! Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments