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Edgar Guest - The Thumbed Collar
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Go up and change your collar," mother often says to me,
"For you can`t go out in that one, it`s as dirty as can be. 
There are splotches on the surface where they very plainly show." 
"That is very queer," I answer, "it was clean an hour ago." 
But I guess just what has happened, and in this it`s clearly summed:
He who lets a baby love him often gets his collar thumbed.

I`ve been dressed up for a dinner, in a shirt of snowy white, 
And I`ve stooped to kiss the rascal, and his arms have held me tight; 
I have clasped him to my bosom as he gooed and gurgled, then 
I have found it necessary that I change my shirt again. 
For the snowy, spotless surface, with some sticky sweet was gummed. 
He who lets a baby love him often gets his linen thumbed.

I have gone downtown o` mornings thinking I was clean and neat, 
And have had some kind friend stop me as I walked along the street 
With the startling information that I wore a collar soiled, 
As he saw the prints and traces where those little thumbs had toiled; 
And I`ve made this explanation—it`s a song I long have hummed— 
He who loves a little baby often get his collar thumbed.

And I`m rather proud I reckon, to have people here allude 
To the prints upon my collars; they`re my badge of servitude. 
They`re the proudest marks I carry, and I really dread the day 
When there`ll be no sticky fingers, when I start to go away, 
To reach up and soil my neckwear; and my heart sometimes is numbed 
When I think the day is coming when my collars won`t be thumbed.
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