Now there is nothing wrong with me Except—I think it’s called T.B. And that is why I have to lay Out in the garden all the day. Our garden is not very wide, And cars go by on either side, And make an angry-hooty noise That rather startles little boys. But worst of all is when they take Me out in cars that growl and shake, With charabancs so dreadful-near I have to shut my eyes for fear. But when I’m on my back again, I watch the Croydon aeroplane That flies across to France, and sings Like hitting thick piano-strings. When I am strong enough to do The things I’m truly wishful to, I’ll never use a car or train But always have an aeroplane; And just go zooming round and round, And frighten Nursey with the sound, And see the angel-side of clouds, And spit on all those motor-crowds!
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