I sing the nose, the kind that grows
Into a huge proboscis;
The sort that doctors diag-nose
“Elephantiasis naris ossis.”
Avaunt, ye folks with tiny snouts,
Of flat, insipid features!
The Muse will none of you; she scouts
Such ordinary creatures!

I sing the Roman nose—the scythe
That mows its way to glory;
Sure sign of natures strong and blythe,
Well known in song and story.
On battlefield, in civil life,
In senate, court and cloister,
The Roman nose is like a knife,
The world is like an oyster.

The wight whose nose describes a curve
Like beak of kite or vulture,
Is sure to be a man of nerve,
And oft is one of culture.
Just cast your eye o'er Clio's page;
Research one fact discloses:
The mighty men of every age
Were men of mighty noses.

Then let us toast the big-nosed host;
Let's raise a lusty chorus
Of loud “Amens” from sea and coast,
Stertorous and sonorous.
And since the promontoried face
Than others is completer,
God speed the day the human race
Will shame the great Ant-eater!