When I was Small way back in time,
We lived quite close to a very large Mine;
And I can picture my Grandad standing there;
Home from work with a disheveled Air;
Like a Scarecrow stood in a force - 8 gale;
Or Edmond Dantes fresh from jail.
When looked upon in the clearest light,
No specimen of Rags ever graced my sight;
For his Hair was covered in the thickest Dirt;
And covered his Face , his Hands and Shirt.
The dust from Coal was thinly spread;
From his Muddy Boots to his filthy Head.
The Jacket torn and begrimed with Mud;
With Trousers Stained and fouled by Crud.
Beneath his Nails the dirt was deep;
As were the Socks upon his feet.
The face Imbedded by Soot and Dust;
To a thickly layered earthen Crust.
The Teeth to which there were only Two;
Grew every which way with a Yellow hue.
And what\'s that Smell that assaults the Nose?
Like the substance spread to feed the Rose;
A pungent aroma to make one gag;
An assortment it seems of fruit gone bad.
So there he stands by the open door;
All things foul and something more.
And It seems to me as I\'ve often found:
He was the dirtiest MILKMAN on the Round.