If e'er I fail in etiquette,
And foozle on The Proper Stuff
Regarding manners, don't forget
A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.
Eke if I err upon the side
Of talking overmuch of Me,
I err, it cannot be denied,
In most illustrious company.
The Limit
While I hold as superficial him who has his young initial
Neatly graven on his Turkish cigarette,
Such a bit of affectation I can view with toleration,
Such a folly I forgive and I forget.
Him who rocks the little boat, or him who rides the cyclemotor
I dislike a little more than just enough;
But you might as well be knowing that the guy who gets me going
Is the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.
Now I've builded many a verse on that extremely stylish person
Who insists upon the hat of emerald hue;
I have made a lot of fun of things that honestly were none of
My blanked business—and I knew that it was true.
At the shameless subway smoker I have been a ceaseless joker——
For that nuisance daily gets me in a huff—
But the one that makes me maddest is that pestilential faddist
Who is carrying his kerchief in his cuff.
I'm a passive, harmless hater of the vari-coloured gaiter
That the men of the Rialto will affect;
Of the loud and sassy clother, I'm a quiet, modest loather,
And to comic section weskits I object.
But, as I have intimated, hinted, innuendoed stated,
Of the things that I believe are awful stuff,
Nothing starts my indignation like the silly affectation
Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff——
E-nough!
Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.
Chorus for Mixed Voices
(Being a stenographic report of how it sounds from the piazza when a dozen boat loads go out on the lake of a summer evening.)
How can I bear to good old Yale the shades of Upidee
That's where my heart is weep no more in sunny Tennessee
How dear to heart grows weary far from meadow grass is blue
Above Cayuga's waters we will sing I'm strong for you.
A Spanish cava fare thee well and everything so fine
That's where you get your old black Joe my darling Clementine
The old folks would enjoy it on the road to Mandalay
'Twas from Aunt Dinah's polly-wolly-woodle all the day.