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.
