Then you wing your little flight,
Sprinkle, sprinkle, left and right.
When the crossings, Sunday clean,
Full of well-dressed folks are seen,
Men, amid their shrieks and oaths
How you sprinkle all their clothes.
And when bright my boots are “shined,”
And my hands in kids confined,
Rattling down the thirsty street
How you soak my hands and feet.