Lynn Roberts : Sartor Resartus

When - couth and kempt from head to toe - I climb on board the morning train
the state of dress I find thereon inclines me to leap off again...
instead I sit and sulk, and start reordering the sumptuary laws,
by noting who to hang and flay (and who should simply stay indoors).

No boxers hoving into view, or crotch that dangles round the shin;
no naked rolls of midriff dough, or knees composed of pleated skin;
no jeans that measure round the thigh a lot more than the leg is long;
no public bra straps, backs (or fronts); no peeking G-strings (really wrong);

no trainers built like dodgem cars; no hoods or sunnies worn inside;
no denim over thirty-eight, or blouson tops – have you no pride?
no clots of fascination stuck grotesquely just above the ear;
no clingy lycra, shapeless fleece, or unseductive sporty gear...

But much the strongest of my ire’s reserved for that disaster
which we should exile straightaway, or (preferably) much faster:
that ghastly adult babygro, in which our youth are strutting;
the onesie - prophylactic for desire and lust and rutting...

So if you’re found within my realm thus hideously bepantled,
you’ll be defrocked -
debagged -
uncapped -
divested –
and
dismantled.