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    The Rough Little Rascal
    by Edgar A. Guest

    A smudge on his nose and a smear on his cheek
    And knees that might not have been washed in
        a week;
    A bump on his forehead, a scar on his lip,
    A relic of many a tumble and trip:
    A rough little, tough little rascal, but sweet,
    Is he that each evening I'm eager to meet.

    A brow that is beady with jewels of sweat;
    A face that's as black as a visage can get;
    A suit that at noon was a garment of white,
    Now one that his mother declares is a fright:
    A fun-loving, sun-loving rascal, and fine,
    Is he that comes placing his black fist in mine.

    A crop of brown hair that is tousled and tossed;
    A waist from which two of the buttons are lost;
    A smile that shines out through the dirt and the
        grime,
    And eyes that are flashing delight all the time:
    All these are the joys that I'm eager to meet
    And look for the moment I get to my street.

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