Early and late, early and late,
Little Boy swings on the garden gate.
“It isn’t a gate; it’s a motor car!
I’m travelling fast and I’m travelling far.
I toot my horn and I turn my wheel,
And nobody knows how grand I feel!”
Early and late, early and late,
Little Boy swings on the garden gate.

I’m off to the Pole on a ’sploring trip.
I’ll ride a white bear, holding on by his hair,
[57]And I’ll hurry him up with a whaleskin whip.”
E............