Papa used to sit me, his Quill on his table, While he write down ancient Tales.
Of traditional laughs and fables Sweet songs, of the Nightingales.
He would stretch out his thoughts so wild, Make me jump up in fright
Some would be slow, caressing and mild, That would make me smile so bright.
When to the grave he went to stay, His Quill never awake.
Years old with beards I went away, His stories out to make,
Bringing his words to children's lips, His Quill,I write in old.
With their smiles, then I could sleep, But his Quill was never sold. Praise.gberiome Dripping ink