The City "Willie" by C.J Dennis

Under the spreading panama,
   The city "Willie" strides,
Now up the street, now down the street,
   Wherever fashion guides;
He weareth clocks on gaudy socks,
   And other things besides.

His hair is fine and fair and neat,
   His face is simply "such"!
His brow is white; he's most polite;
   And labelled, "Do not touch."
And he looks the whole world in the face,
   And owes his tailor much.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
   He followeth a frock;
You can see him swing his little cane,
   What time he does the block,
Just like a little pendulum
   Upon an eight-day clock.

And the children coming home from school,
   They look him o'er and o'er,
They love to see his flaming tie,
   And hear his waistcoat roar.
And catch the burning butts that drop
   Like the "H" of a Councillor.

He goes on Sunday to the beach
   With the maiden of his choice;
He hears the seagull scream and screech,
   He hears his own sweet voice,
Singing of his own renown,
   And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like and angel's voice,
   Singing in Paradise!
He needs must watch himself, of course,
   As to his girl he lies,
And with his soft white hand he wipes
   The sand from out his eyes.

Posing -- rejoicing -- borrowing,
   Onward thro' life he goes,
Each morning sees some suit put on,
   Each eve he doffs his clothes;
Something attempted, something worn,
   Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my Willie friend,
   For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus in the tailor's shop of life,
   Our fortunes must be bought;
And if we think nought of ourselves,
   Nought of us will be thought.  

First published in The Gadfly, 2 October 1907