It wears well; it won't pill,
And the wool is never shrinking.
It won't warp; the woof's not dog's call.
Twill is my suit.

It goes well with my tie
Even when the Windsor's kinking.
The weave's weft caresses each ball
Filling my suit.

If I abuse it, it's laundered; wool clothes shan't be smelly,
With clean fragrant threads so well-washed, like new.

For my lunch: quarter pound
And a supersized soft drinking.
Cornucopian cup slips, falls,
Spills on my suit.

I must ablute it; it's lacquered with Coke 'n' from belly
Of eats vacant--retch blown upon span* suit.

There was lunch all around,
Partly digested and stinking.
I'd divested, had purged it all--
Spilled on my suit.

Ill on my suit.


*contraction of spick-and-span