Papa, What Did Henry Do?

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For years now, my grandchildren knowing I can spin a story, have been asking about Henry. Henry is a stuffed doll, about 30 inches high, who has been relegated to stand in the corner. He is hiding his face in shame, ball cap backward on his head, bibbed overalls with bandana or slingshot sticking from its pocket.

Ain't he pitiful?

I've been challenged often when grandchildren enter the house and ask "Papa what did Henry do?" On the spot I have to come up with some yarn that makes them giggle. I have written several little rhymes about the fellow and his sidestepping escapades. Here is one I'm going to share now. Let me know if you want to hear some more.

HENRY IN THE CORNER

Papa, what did Henry do?

Oh, . . . he’s a fellow just like you!

He is a doll you should know,

A puppet that will never grow.

Stuffed with rags––he has no face;

Standing in a corner is his place. 

Papa, tell, what did Henry do?

Well, . . . I hope it wasn’t you!

He made a mess he could not hide,

With puffed-up chest he showed his pride.

He used ketchup like some finger-paint,

Enough on the floor to make you faint.

Papa, Papa, is Henry in big time trouble

Squeezing that tempting ketchup bottle?

Yes! . . . Henry needs a talking to––

So listen up . . . make sure it isn’t you!

If the bottle you’re allowed to squeeze,

Hold it tight and do not sneeze,

Or you’ll have ketchup to your knees.

Papa, did Henry heed your warning––

To be a good boy in the morning?

No! . . . sticky red on hands and chin,

Showed to all where he has been.

He was shooting ketchup with each squirt; 

The same as slinging gobs of sticky dirt,

Up and down his yellow shirt.

Papa, will little Henry ever learn––

So your loving favor he will earn?

Is he on the way of getting hurt?

Why can’t he play with plain old dirt?

Does he dream all night of ketchup,

Then hunts the bottle when he wakes up?

Does he love to wallow in a mess?

Papa, . . . is our Henry kinda hopeless?

Papa, I’m still worried, what did Henry do?

Are now his doings good and true?

Good and true . . . I cannot say,

With ketchup he still likes to play.

The lessons he has not forgotten,

The little boy is spoiled just rotten.

Now he lays in bed on clean white cotton,

Dipping fries in ketchup from his bellybutton!

Papa, you know Henry does confess

Every time he makes a mess.

Standing in the corner he is so sweet,

With worn boots on rag-stuffed feet.

Hiding his face in deep confession,

Being sorry for his wild transgression.

You wouldn’t punish him––you love him so!

Just like me and sister this we know.

Thank you Papa. . .   Look no face!