Last year he wanted building blocks,
   And picture books and toys,
A saddle horse that gayly rocks,
   And games for little boys.
But now he’s big and all that stuff
   His whim no longer suits;
He tells us that he’s old enough
   To ask for rubber boots.
 
Last year whatever Santa brought
   Delighted him to own;
He never gave his wants a thought
   Nor made his wishes known.
But now he says he wants a gun,
   The kind that really shoots,
And I’m confronted with a son
   Demanding rubber boots.
 
The baby that we used to know
   Has somehow slipped away,
And when or where he chanced to go
   Not one of us can say.
But here’s a helter-skelter lad
   That to me nightly scoots
And boldly wishes that he had
   A pair of rubber boots.
 
I’ll bet old Santa Claus will sigh
   When down our flue he comes,
And seeks the babe that used to lie
   And suck his tiny thumbs,
And finds within that little bed
   A grown up boy who hoots
At building blocks, and wants instead
   A pair of rubber boots.

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