I wonder what there is in me
That makes folks smile as I go by.
My air is good, my clothes fit well;
They cannot think I am a guy.
And yet they smile. How very rude!
I may have faults; but I'm a Dude.
They are not Dudes themselves. Ah, there
The trouble is. We Dudes are born;
We stir the envy of the throng,
To which, thank Heav'n, we don't belong.
Not of the vulgar multitude
Are we. Who would not be a Dude?
It is my comfort and my pride
To know that what I am I am.
And what we are - what are we
Anyhow? By Jove, I'd have to cram
To learn; and learning's not my mood.
Who learns can never be a Dude.
I know I have no brains -
They must be very hard to get -
And brains would never, never take
In our select, exclusive set.
We care for better things, imbued
With all that glorifies the Dude.
The german I can lead; I bang
My hair; I wear my trousers tight;
I dote on Chambertin; I hate
To read or think;' I pass the night
At clubs; in short, I love the nude,
Though Art is not the dudest Dude.
To be a Dude is my whole aim.
A Dude is chic, is nobby swell,
To feel that Life's a dreadful bore,
Creation's self an awful sell.
The swellest thing, from our point of view'd,
Is to recede from Man to Dude.
- Junius Henri Browne.
New York, April 5, 1883.
The Evening Star (Washington DC), April 11, 1883, page 7.
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