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Poem by Robert William Service
That Tom was poor was sure a pity, Such guts for learning had the lad; He took to Greek like babe to titty, And he was mathematic mad. I loved to prime him up with knowledge, A brighter lad I never knew; I dreamed that he would go to college And there be honoured too. But no! His Dad said, "Son, I need you To keep the kettle on the boil; No longer can I clothe and feed you, Buy study books and midnight oil. I carry on as best I'm able, A humble tailor, as you know; And you must squat cross-legged a table And learn to snip and sew." And that is what poor Tom is doing. He bravely makes the best of it; But as he "fits" you he is knowing That he himself is a misfit; And thinks as he fulfils his calling, With patient heart yet deep distaste, Like clippings from his shears down-falling, --He, too, is Waste.
Robert William Service
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