It is one, two, four, sree moons, somemore
Since I turn down to ‘our s’antea!
A’int ‘oo pritty alad I turn when I had?
I are; tause afore I felt ‘ead bad
Tause I’d no mammie nor auntie!
I dess I learn some ever tince I turn;
A pitty dood tsollar with me turn!
I’ve found that I does all the way to my toes,
O, the funniest sin’s in two ‘ittle rows,
And they ‘eal dood toes & I eat ‘em!
Did ‘oo ever dess this drate lou’ dwess
Was not a one bit of ‘our Baby?
I dot it away one mornin’ day,
For somesin in it, all wrapped up, lay,
And there I was hid, sewer’s as maybe!
I dess if ‘oo hunts ‘eal hard two, once,
Somewhere in there is a-muzzes!
There’s somesin that tits, & doubles, & his
My tuzzer knee! ‘oo did’im out twit’s
‘Oo tan, to be my ‘ittle bruzzer!
For what am I dood? O, for mammie to b’ood,
For auntie to tiss & tousle,
For Dardie to ‘queeze & twot-ou his kness,
And send to the Moon for a sittle dween treeze,
And for Papa to tumble & nouzzle.
And I dit ou the floor & dest doe & e’splore
And find sin’s ever so many!
All the fred & the pins, the fimble, & strin’s
The watz & the ‘rernry, the swizzers & the sin’s,
And none of ‘em taste so funny!
And the drate bid putts dits under my fools,
And he dot out a sweet-pretty handle
I dit it & pull, & he sin’s bootiful!
And stratches away & dinome his wool!
But he don’t mate a very dood tandle!
Tause he yuns when I light’nu; it seems to refright’in!
And he don’t look so well without whistlers!
Ah, poor pretty sin’, I wont do so adin!
I know it was naughty as never was been,
Tause two of my fin-ders are blisters!
When Dordie timsby I doe near to the sty;
Nobody but we taw tell how near!
And he puts up his hands ‘way down where he stands,
And says I’m a Ternbim, – then peddles mams;
And tatches me when I turn down here.
If Papa turns in, tose under he tsin
My Mammie hides me in her bousie,
He’ll loot in the fire, & the draw’ & intwire,
And turn up the trintels, & him tose by her,
But toudn’t find me! what a doosie!
Then I tan’t hold in till I laugh out adin,
And he says I’m a wogue to outwit’m!
Then he teals from my feets, & my mous, & my cheeks,
All the hisses my mammie laid up for a weats;
But I dess that she knows where to dit’ em!
I ‘pose I must fights pretty hard for my yites
In this drate rough would of dziants!
There are so many risks for a baby, I twish –
My face, & doubles my ‘ittle red fish,
To teep ‘em away by my “science!”
But Papa & Mammie, & Dordie & Sammy,
And all the dood fotes in treation,
Will dress me, & tiss me, & bless me, & wis’ me
Ten babies to once, for ‘em all to taress me
But Auntie, she says, “No ottasion!”
Baby Talk