Classic Poem

I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed,
An' wash again when I get up, an' wash before I'm fed,
An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands an' shirt —
They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond of dirt.
But Bill — my chum — an' I agree that we have never seen
A feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean.

Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him in from play
To make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times a day.
Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber comes
To fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs his thumbs;
His clothes are always thick with grease, his face is smeared with dirt,
An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt.

The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse than mine,
An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in every line.
The carpenter who works around our house can mend a chair
Or put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother doesn't care
That he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferes
An' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash his ears.

The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see,
Have hands and necks an' ears that are as dirty as can be.
The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go,
Most always has a smudgy face — his hands aren't white as snow.
But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knows
The most important men in town have dirty hands an' clo'es.