"Philip, if 'twon't make you ill,
Try to sit a minute still."
So, in earnest tone and rough
Spake the father to his tough,
While the mother's troubled glance
Prophesied a present dance
When these two should get a start.
And so it made her sick at heart
To see the boy hadn't heard
His restive father's warning word.
       He jiggered,
       And sniggered,
       And joggled,
       And boggled,
On his chair and squirmed galore:
"Philip this doth irk me sore!"

See, ye darling little chaps,
Number Two of Phil's mishaps:
Observe, the picture shows the fact;
See! he tilts his chair aback –
See! he's going – going – gone!
Grabs the cloth and what's thereon,
Sprawls heels upward on the floor.
Dishes follow, crash and roar,
Down they clash and plash and slash,
Down come soup and cheese and hash,
And under them the boy they mash!
Father stares in consternation,
Can't size up the Situation,
While the mother's troubled glance
Notes fulfilled the promised dance.

Philip's buried, hide and hair,
Naked Stands the table there!
All the fam'ly had for dinner
Decks the grave of that young sinner
Soup and sausage, wholesome bread,
Gone to hide that foolish head.
Soup-tureen is split in two –
What shall they do, what shall they do
Frantic view they this defeat –
They've not a single bite to eat.