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| OUR city is born of the pure, blue sea, | |
| And girt by the waters of rivers three— | |
| Two of them large and one of them small— | |
| And the ocean tides, as they rise and fall, | |
| Wash the feet of our island town, | 5 |
| Swinging and plashing up and down. | |
| Easy it should be to keep us clean, | |
| A city that lies such washings between; | |
| Plenty of water and plenty of soap, | |
| Plenty of shovels and hoes, we hope, | 10 |
| And other hose that may carry and squirt | |
| Streams of water wherever there’s dirt; | |
| And yet this town, that should be so clean, | |
| Is the dirtiest city that ever was seen. | |
| From end to end of each filthy street | 15 |
| Nothing is pure and nothing is sweet. | |
| And the mire our rolling wheels that clogs | |
| Is foul with the bodies of cats and dogs, | |
| And the offal of cleaner brutes than they | |
| Who leave our streets in so vile a way | 20 |
| In spite of all the money we pay. | |
| For, know, oh monarch of Scanderoon, | |
| That we, thy people, from June till June, | |
| Pay enough, in our hard won gold, | |
| Fairly counted and straightly told, | 25 |
| If into a sheet it was properly rolled, | |
| To cover the pavement of stone and wood— | |
| The pavement that is, we mean, that should | |
| Be under the sloppy and slippery mire | |
| Where our garments spoil and our horses tire— | 30 |
| From end to end of the city wide, | |
| And leave an elegant fringe outside. | |
| And the thing is a thing, oh king, that sours | |
| On us all, to find that the city powers, | |
| The grand magnorums who round you stand, | 35 |
| And take our money with greedy hand, | |
| See no evil, or shame, or hurt | |
| In leaving our streets all hid in the dirt. | |
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