Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.
They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.
They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.
They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.
They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.
They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.
They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.
They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.
They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.
They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.
They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.
"our game": hockey
