An arduous ode to the difficulty of finding comfortable clothes to engender confidence in romance
or
How I learned to stop worrying and love the bum.
Calibrate my sartorial prowess,
Oh quisling thee,
Paltry poultry is my poetry
Pretentious pottery,
In love’s cruel lottery.
Oh muse, I have a nice house in a mews
But it’s you I choose to amuse
For mews of delight,
Your purrs of pleasurely poetic ‘preciation.
As I over-alliterate,
I have something bitter ate,
The fruit of thy rejection
Thy heart’s insurrection
‘Gainst my imperfection
It kills my um, passion
With such misdirection
It calls for inspection
Of thy love’s confection
So wait just a sec, son
And give us a chance?
Elsewise I’m unwise and despite
My own thighs and their size
Causing sighs after tries after tries
After tries to get these damn trousers on.
And so it’s goodbyes
My ass size causes mass sighs
And thus dies
My assize
Of the precious gold of fashion
And my passion
Comes crashin’
Down amongst the ruins
Of my hopes
Love’s for dopes.
On the ropes
Scented soaps
Are quite nice actually, but not so relevant here.