There’s a little man who smiles at me

Laughs and cries and dines with me

Who waits and begs to play with me

And never seems to tire

Of hearing stories true or fairy

Of everything imaginary

But now and then

I’ll tell him something

Of me before he found his way here

And crinkling up his nose a bit

Because he somehow can’t believe it

Asks, “Papa was there life before me?”

“No”, I answer, “nothing really.”

R.W. Dooley