Classic Poem

A ragged kid in a torn straw hat,
With his hair stuck through, an' a sassy smile,
An' one suspender 'crost, like that —
Wal — it may be art, but it ain't my style.

Diggin' th' sand with his bare big toe,
An' a big loose patch sewed to his knee;
Shovin' his hands in his pockets — so;
Why they call that art, dogged ef I see.

Why, th' little runt 'et's painted there,
With his eyes half closed, an' winkin' down,
Th' sassy little rat, I swear
I've seen him, right in my own town.

Them funny freckles, big an' brown,
'N' them ragged pants an' that torn straw hat —
I bet I kin find, right in our town,
A dozen kids 'et look like that.

Why, sho! I've caught more kids like that
In th' limbs o' my own apple tree,
Lookin' out under that ol' straw hat,
An' winkin' sassy down at me.

Th' little scamp! I kin almost hear
Him say: " Hev an apple, Dad, " an' throw
One down an' ketch me on th' ear!
Why they call that art, dogged ef I know.

An' th' goldarned thing! A city chap
Come along an' paid five hundred cold
Fer it, an' thought he had a snap.
I had t' laugh 't how he got sold.

A ragged kid in a torn straw hat,
Like I've seen a hundred times, I bet:
An' payin' out that much fer that!
B' gosh, th' fools ain't all dead yet! "