The Limit

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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----
  Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.

© Franklin Pierce Adams