Apron Strings Poem by William B. Watterson

“My son, you’re only twelve years old, ” she said,
“And if I let you journey into town,
Someone might cut your throat or strike you down.”
But still the boy continually pled,
Refuting points and laughing at her dread.
Though all the while she never ceased to frown,
He thought by wiles to wear her defense down.
He did, she lost, he won, and “Go, ” she said.

Down by a dusky music hall he made
His way, and there a band of Angels let
His blood flow out most painfully and slow.
And as he saw the light grow dim and fade,
His mother’s warning he could not forget,
But still he knew she had to let him go.