It was Cecilia, – told Cecilia, –
that had one mother too many.
Or was it less that one?
She never could decide.
She wasn’t good in arithmetics.
She wasn’t good at all.
My mother is an angel in the sky, –
she used to say, –
my father – an academician in Sweden.
My mother was good in arithmetics.
Perhaps, she is.
My father – in high mathematics.
And I’m good for nothing, one, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
eleven, twelve, thirteen, forteen,
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen,
twenty, twenty one,
twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five,
twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine,
twenty ten, – that’s what counts.