There goes his glass! A rag, a rag, Or soon we'll all be drowning! I knew that he would spill his milk With all his frisky clowning. Just wait, young man, I'll get the stick And I'll apply it heavy -- Watch out, mama, do hold up there And form an oilcloth levee! My plate's marooned; the sugar bowl's A refugee in sorrow -- The flood recedes. But what's the use, A new one comes tomorrow. |