OUR STREET





In our street, the main street

Running thro' the town,

You see a lot of busy folk

Going up and down:



Bag men and basket men,

Men with loads of hay,

Buying things and selling things

And carting things away.



The butcher is a funny man,

He calls me Dandy Dick;

The baker is a cross man,

I think he's often sick;



The fruiterer's a nice man,

He gives me apples, too;

The grocer says, "Good morning, boy,

What can I do for you?"



Of all the men in our street

I like the cobbler best,

Tapping, tapping at his last

Without a minute's rest;



Talking all the time he taps,

Driving in the nails,

Smiling with his old grey eyes--

(Hush) . . . telling fairy tales.





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