O youth uncouth, who slouchest by, Along the crowded public street, An eyeglass in thy languid eye, Brown boots upon thy feet,
A loose umbrella in thy grip, A toothpick pendent from thy lip. Much I deplore thy clumsy gait, Thy drab sartorial display,
So wholly inappropriate To this august highway; How can a man in such attire Set any spinster's heart on fire?
Thou art in dress no epicure, By weight of fashions overladen; Thy tawdry togs do not allure The soul of every maiden;
They sound no echoing color-note To her tempestuous petticoat. Her stylish skirt, her dainty blouse, Are crepe-de-chine, or bombazine;
Compare the texture of thy trous: With their chromatic sheen; To what abysm of taste we reach By the Observance of thy Breech!
Think what she pays her modiste for Those hats of questionable shapes, Surmounted by a seagull or Some imitation grapes!
Small wonder she receives a shock Each time she views thy “billycock”! Observe how like an autumn leaf The colors of the male canary,
The garb of each New Zealand chief Who woos his Little Maori; The savage mind has thus designed A dress to please its womankind.
And tho’ I would not have thee go As far as primal man or beast, To lovely woman thou should'st show Some deference at least,
And give a thought of what to wear Upon the public thoroughfare. And should'st thou wish to walk aright, Let Mr. Beerbohm be thy mould;
Sedate yet courtly, and polite As any beau of old; Yea, plant thy footsteps in the tracks Of our inimitable Max!
Enclose thy larynx in a stock ( As though afflicted with the fever ); And in the place of “billycock” Procure a bristling “beaver”;
And practise, not I hope in vain, The “conduct of a clouded cane.” If thou consentest thus to act, In scorn of popular convention,
Thy bearing shall indeed attract Much feminine attention; As day by day, in brilliant hue, Thy figure fills Fifth Avenue.
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