Author Wilfrid Wilson Gibson That was his sort: It didn't matter What we were at But he must chatter Of this and that His little son Had said or done; Till, as he told The fiftieth time Without a change How three-year-old Prattled a rhyme, They got the range And cut him short. 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