Roberta was a crocodile; a mother croc was she,
Exhausted by her youngest child, a tiresome fellow he.
The tears Roberta wept were real. How sorry was her plight.
The son she loved was troublesome; he would do nothing right.
She threatened him with many kinds of crocodilian fates
And then she saw upon the banks a lady from the States.
Her clothing simply oozed with cash. It showed in every stitch.
Her bag, her shoes, her flashing rings proclaimed her filthy rich.
Roberta gazed with fear and hate upon her well shod feet
And then with yet more searching stare upon her bag so neat.
She pulled herself upon the bank to get a better view
And stormed, “Augustus, look at that! Now weren’t my warnings true?
You wayward croc, you’ll suffer shocks if naughtiness you choose.
I’ll sell you to the awful man who made her bag and shoes”.
Copyright © 2000 [Rev. C. Champneys Burnham]. All rights reserved.