The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit,
His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute.
His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob;
But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job!
Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low.
You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow;
Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.”
And children coming home from school run frightened past his door,
They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar,