At half past three, we go home for our tea,
Or maybe at quarter to four.
When ten little feet going running down the street,
And in at their own front door.

And it's rough and tumble, rattle and noise,
Mothers and fathers, girls and boys.
Baby's in the carrycot, cat by the stove.
A little bit of quarrelling, but much more love.

BEGONE FROM MY MIND, YOU VILE SONNET!
( hoifbjifbef, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 5:33, archived)

I'll write you a limerick, if you like.
That might help get rid of it.
( wynoh kills threads by his mere presence, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 8:34, archived)