Classic Poem

Little sticky fingers, it is very plain to see
With your pulling and your tugging that you make a wreck of me.
There's a splotch upon my collar
That is larger than a dollar,
And my new and costly necktie is a positive disgrace!
On the bosom of my shirt
You have left a smear of dirt,
And something seems to tell me there is butter on my face.

Little sticky fingers, what's a grown-up man to do
When he comes down stairs o' mornings to a laughing babe like you,
And your arms are held out, shaking
For a bit of merry-making,
And those chubby little fingers and those rosy little thumbs
Seem to dance and throb with glee?
Would any daddy flee
To save his spotless collar from the butter and the crumbs?

Little sticky fingers, as a gentleman is dressed
I have held you on my shoulder and I've hugged you to my breast,
While those little hands were pressing
All the signs of their caressing
On my white and shining raiment, and I've seen the people smile
At my collar sadly soiled
Where your rosy thumbs had moiled—
But linen doesn't matter, it is only pomp and style.

Little sticky fingers, stamp your seals of love on me;
Press those hands upon my collar and it's happy I will be.
Oh, it's little I am caring
For the linen I am wearing,
I would rather own those smudges than the jewels of a king;
I would rather folks could see
Every stain you leave on me
Than to wear a spotless collar where no sticky fingers cling.