Little Albert has a way

of driving all the neighbors mad—

a trait, his mother likes to say,

that he borrowed from his Dad.

Let the moon rise late or early,

Albert’s little voice will trill

as he plays his ukulele

underneath the window sill.

When Dad gets up to sing along,

their voices piercing through the air,

the neighbors know there’s something wrong

and fall down on their knees in prayer.

Mother says they’re being spiteful

barely holding back her tears,

and thinks Dad’s voice is quite delightful

for someone who’s been dead for years.