Fritz was a neat and tidy boy,
but full of mischief and reckless joy.
His mother said, "Child, mark my word:
Keep that thumb from your mouth—haven't you heard?
Thumb-sucking twists your fingers tight
and harms the soul, steals inner light."
But Fritz, as stubborn as a stone,
kept sucking his thumb when left alone.
He laughed, he scoffed, he even said:
"What harm could come? It's all in your head!"
Then on the third afternoon,
there came a man—dark as a monsoon.
His gloves were black, his beard was grey,
his tools were old and cold as clay.
He spoke no word, no greeting, no sound,
but closer he stepped, without a bound.
And ere young Fritz could flee or run,
he seized him—the Scissor Man had come!
With one swift snip—so sharp, so clean—
thumb one, then two—no more were seen.
A scream, a cry, a bitter plea,
but what was done would ever be.
Now Fritz is pale, in silent pain,
he'll never suck his thumb again.
He hides his hands beneath his vest
and weeps alone, with no rest.