Classic Poem

My little boy is eight years old,
He goes to school each day;
He doesn't mind the tasks they set-
They seem to him but play.
He heads his class at raffia work,
And also takes the lead
At making dinky paper boats—
But I wish that he could read.

They teach him physiology,
And, O, it chills our hearts
To hear our prattling innocent
Mix up his inward parts.
He also learns astronomy
And names the stars by night—
Of course he's very up-to-date,
But I wish that he could write.

They teach him things botanical,
They teach him how to draw,
He babbles of mythology
And gravitation's law;
And the discoveries of science
With him are quite a fad,
They tell me he's a clever boy,
But I wish that he could add.