Lulu’s Complaint.
I’se a poor ’ittle sorrowful baby,
For B’idget is ’way down stairs:
My titten has scatched my fin’er,
And Dolly won’t say her p’ayers.
I hain’t seen my bootiful mamma
Since ever so long ado;
An’ I ain’t her tunninest baby
No londer, for B’idget says so.
Mamma dot anoder new baby,
Dod dived it—He did—yes’erday;
An’ it kies, it kies—oh! so defful!
I wis’ He would take it away.
I don’t want no “sweet ’ittle sister;”
I want my dood mamma, I do;
I want her to tiss me and tiss me,
An’ tall me her p’ecious Lulu.
I dess my dear papa will bin’ me
A ’ittle dood titten some day;
Here’s nurse wid my mamma’s new baby;
I wis’ she would tate it away.
Oh! oh! what tunnin’ red fin’ers!
It sees me ’ite out of its eyes;
I dess we will teep it and dive it
Some can’y whenever it kies.
I dess I will dive it my dolly
To play wid ’mos’ every day;
An’ I dess, I dess—Say, B’idget,
Ask Dod not to tate it away.