Lyrics Authorship - Rabindranath Tagore

You say that father writes a lot of books
But what he writes I don't understand
He was reading to you all evening
But could you really make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us!
Why can't father write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories
Of giants and fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?

Often when he gets late for his bath
You have to go and call him a hundred times
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him
But he goes on writing and forgets
Father always plays at making books
If ever I go to play in father's room
You come and call me, "What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say
"Don't you see that father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?

When I take up father's pen or pencil
And write upon his book just as he does
A, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i
Why do you get cross with me, then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes

When my father wastes such heaps of paper
Mother, you don't seem to mind at all
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with
You say, "Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper
With black marks all over both sides?