by Edgar Guest
You can talk about your music and your operatic airs
and your phonographic record that Caruso’s tenor bears,
but there isn’t any music that such wondrous joy can bring
like the concert when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.
When the suppertime is over and the mother starts to play
some simple little ditty, and our concert’s under way
and I’m happier and richer than some millionaire or king
when I listen to the kiddies and their mother as they sing.
There’s a sweetness most appealing in the trilling of their notes;
it is innocence that’s pouring from their little baby throats,
and I gaze at them enraptured for my joy’s a real thing
every evening when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.
From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest,
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company