A smudge on his nose and a smear on his cheek br And knees that might not have been washed in a week; br A bump on his forehead, a scar on his lip, br A relic of many a tumble and trip: br A rough little, tough little rascal, but sweet, br Is he that each evening I'm eager to meet. br br A brow that is beady with jewels of sweat; br A face that's as black as a visage can get; br A suit that at noon was a garment of white, br Now one that his mother declares is a fright: br A fun-loving, sun-loving rascal, and fine, br Is he that comes placing his black fist in mine. br br A crop of brown hair that is tousled and tossed; br A waist from which two of the buttons are lost; br A smile that shines out through the dirt and the grime, br And eyes that are flashing delight all the time: br All these are the joys that I'm eager to meet br And look for the moment I get to my street.