A Fine Suit

It has been a while
Since he hung up his beguile
Never truly naked
But hidden by his style

Raiment so neatly ironed
That it makes him look so smooth
But some creases slowly rise
The jacket looking used

A wine stain on the sleeve
Of the white shirt that he wears
Showing that he slipped up
By shedding one red tear

This red tear blurred his sight
And his trouser leg was torn
When he visited the dress shop
His hopes now look forlorn

He still won’t hang it up
He desperately clings on
Despite it looking wretched
And the people catching on

It starts to smell quite vile
This dirty old beguile
Never truly naked
But unhidden by his style.