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 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.

Edgar A. Guest - Photo by Zeynel Yesilay