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.