Hinemoa, Tui, Maina,
All of them were born together;
They are quite an extra special
Set of babies–wax and leather.
Every day they took an airing;
Mummy made them each a bonnet;
Two were cherry, one was yellow
With a bow of ribbon on it.
Really, sometimes we would slap them,
For if ever we were talking,
They would giggle and be silly,
Saying, “Mamma, take us walking.”
But we never really loved them
Till one day we left them lying
In the garden–through a hail-storm,
And we heard the poor dears crying.
Half-Past-Six said–“You’re a mother!
What if Mummy did forget you?”
So I said, “Well, you’re their Father.
Get them!” but I wouldn’t let you.