In the House of Too Much Trouble
By Albert Biglow Paine
In the House of Too Much Trouble
Lived a lonely little boy;
He was eager for a playmate,
He was hungry for a toy.
But ’twas always too much bother,
Too much dirt, and too much noise,
For the House of Too Much Trouble
Wasn’t meant for little boys. And sometimes the little fellow
Left a book upon the floor,
Or forgot and laughed too loudly,
Or he failed to close the door.
In a House of Too Much Trouble
Things must be precise and trim —
In a House of Too Much Trouble
There was little room for him. He must never scatter playthings,
He must never romp and play;
Every room must be in order,
And kept quiet all the day.
He had never had companions,
He had never owned a pet.
In the House of Too Much Trouble
It is trim and quiet yet. Every room is set in order —
Every book is in its place,
And the lonely little fellow
Wears a smile upon his face.
In the House of Too Much Trouble
He is silent and at rest —
In the House of Too Much Trouble
With a lily on his breast.
— Albert Biglow Paine.