Or like a goose by a boy pursued?
He whom I look for with longing ecstatic,
He whom I worship—My Dude, My Dude.
Will his small moustache be with wax anointed?
Will his hair in the middle be parted neat?
Will he still wear those boots so pointed,
Pinching his dear little tender feet?
Will his legs be thin and his hat be curly?
Will he suck his cane as a child its food?
Will he still call me his girly, girly?