"Konrad!" cried his mamma dear,
"I 'll go out, but you stay here,
Try how pretty you can be
Till I come again," said she.
"Docile be, and good and mild,
Pray don't suck your thumb, my child,
For if you do, the tailor 'll come
And bring his shears and snip your thumb
From off your hand as clear and clean
As if of paper it had been."

Before she'd turned the corner south,
He'd got his thumbkin in his mouth!

Bang! here goes the door ker-slam!
Whoop! the tailor lands her-blam!
Waves his shears, the heartless grub,
And calls for Dawmen-lutscher-bub.
Claps his weapon to the thumb,
Snips it Square as head of drum,
While that lad his tongue unfurled
And fired a yell heard 'round the world.

Who can tell that mother's sorrow
When she saw her boy the morrow!
There he stood all steeped in shame,
And not a thumbkin to his name.