Clinton Scollard (Клинтон Сколлард)
Fraidie-Cat
I shan’t tell you what’s his name: When we want to play a game, Always thinks that he’ll be hurt, Soil his jacket in the dirt, Tear his trousers, spoil his hat,— Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat! Nothing of the boy in him! “Dasn’t” try to learn to swim; Says a cow’ll hook; if she Looks at him he’ll climb a tree; “Scart” to death at bee or bat,— Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat! Claims there’re ghosts all snowy white Wandering around at night In the attic; wouldn’t go There for anything, I know; B’lieve he’d run if you said “Scat!” Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!
Clinton Scollard’s other poems:
904
