He was a good good little boy
From break of dawn till time for bed:
His father’s pride, his mother’s joy,
Immaculately bred.

He never lost his temper, was
As gentle as he seemed polite;
He rarely even yelled, because
He knew it was not right.

Of late, between his docile days
There comes from somewhere dark and deep
A wicked wish for wanton ways—
But only in his sleep.