My mamma, when we build our house,
Wants plenty closets in it.
She says she’ll tell the architect
That’s how he must begin it.
My papa says he doesn’t care
A fig for big clothes-presses,
But what he wants is plenty room,
And that he’ll have, he guesses.
But I don’t care how little ’tis,
A palace or a shanty,
I want a chimney big enough
To let in dear old Santy.
