The Boy Next Door

I.     There's a boy who lives next door;     And this boy is just as bad     As a boy can be; and poor!     He's so poor it makes me sad     When I see him. Out at knee;     And no shoes; and, more than that,     Hardly any shirt or hat.     He's as poor as Poverty. II.     But I like him; yes, I do.     He can play 'most any game,     And tell fairy stories, too;     Funny stories, just the same     As my father does. And he     Told me one about a frog,     Living near a lake or bog,     Frog that married a bumblebee. III.     And another of Jumping Joan     And Hink Minx, the old witch that     Sits before the fire alone     Frying fat for her black cat.     And of Craney Crow; her dog     And her chicken. But the best,     One I like more than the rest,     'S that one of the bee and frog. IV.     Well, the bumblebee would sing     All day long; and all the night     Sang the old frog; till the thing,     So folks said, was done in spite,     Just to keep the flowers awake:     One a rose, a brier-rose;     And the other, one of those     Lilies that grow in a lake. V.     All day long the bee would prod     At the rose and buzz and keep     Shaking it; it couldn't nod,     Much less ever go to sleep:     Humming to it, "Don't you hear?     I'm so happy! Can't you be     Just a little neighborly?     Ain't my froggie just a dear?" VI.     And the frog all night would sing     To the water-lily; while     On the pad he'd sit or cling,     On his face an ear-wide smile,     Croaking, "Listen! have you heard     All about my bouncing bee?     Don't you wish that you were she?     I'm as happy as a bird!" VII.     Then the water-lily'd yawn,     And the rose would bat its eyes:     One would say, "It's nearly dawn.     Better sleep. So I advise."     And the other, "Jumping Jim!     That old frog's a wonder! made     Just for you. Can't I persuade     You to sing your songs to him?" VIII.     Finally it got so bad     That the rose and lily agreed     They would fix them. Both were mad     And just dying to be freed     From this tuneful tyranny.     So the rose just took a thorn,     When the bee dropped in one morn,     Stabbed her; killed her dead, you see. IX.     That night by the yellow moon,     Sitting on the lily-pad,     Tuning up his old bassoon,     Did n't that old frog feel sad     When the lily told him! Cried     Fit to break one's heart; and, plunk!     In he plunged right there and sunk:     Drowned, committed suicide.