He’s al’ays tumblin’ ’bout ze floor, an’ gives us awful scares,
An’ when he goes to bed at night, he never says his prayers.
On Sunday, too, he musses up my go-to-meetin’ clothes,
An’ once I foun’ him hard at work a-pinc’in’ Dolly’s nose;
An’ ze uzzer day zat naughty boy (now what you s’pose you zink?)
Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa’s writin’ ink;
An’, ’stead of kyin’ dood an’ hard, as course he ought to done,
He laughed and kicked his head ’most off, as zough he zought ’twas fun.
He even tries to reach up high, an’ pull zings off ze shelf,
An’ he’s al’ays wantin’ you, of course, jus’ when you wants you’self.