The Picture Book.

When I was not quite five years old
    I first saw the blue picture book,
And Fraulein Spitzenburger told
Stories that sent me hot and cold;
    I loathed it, yet I had to look:
    It was a German book.

I smiled at first, for she'd begun
    With a back-garden broad and green,
And rabbits nibbling there:    page one
Turned; and the gardener fired his gun
    From the low hedge:    he lay unseen
    Behind:    oh, it was mean!

They're hurt, they can't escape, and so
    He stuffs them head-down in a sack,
Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,
And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho!    Ho, ho!"
    And gave my middle a hard smack,
    I wish that I'd hit back.

Then when I cried she laughed again;
    On the next page was a dead boy
Murdered by robbers in a lane;
His clothes were red with a big stain
    Of blood, he held a broken toy,
    The poor, poor little boy!

I had to look:    there was a town
    Burning where every one got caught,
Then a fish pulled a nigger down
Into the lake and made him drown,
    And a man killed his friend; they fought
    For money, Fraulein thought.

Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.
    "Ho, ho!"    Then she explained it all
How robbers kill the little boys
And torture them and break their toys.
    Robbers are always big and tall:
    I cried:    I was so small.

How a man often kills his wife,
    How every one dies in the end
By fire, or water or a knife.
If you're not careful in this life,
    Even if you can trust your friend,
    You won't have long to spend.

I hated it, old Fraulein picked
    Her teeth, slowly explaining it.
I had to listen, Fraulein licked
Her fingers several times and flicked
    The pages over; in a fit
    Of rage I spat at it...

And lying in my bed that night
    Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found
A stretch of barren years in sight,
Where right is wrong, but strength is right,
    Where weak things must creep underground,
    And I could not sleep sound.