Starched,

expensive, made by hand

in a luxurious and classy tailors

with the word

sir

attached to every sentence,

the suits populate the world,

like a cockroach

they can never be destroyed,

they just live through

every explosion that comes their way

and they dust themselves down

and continue shouting instructions

to the shirts and the vest tops;

oh I would like to hang them by their perfect tie.

Ban the suit; the Burka, the motorbike leather,

the heavy metal gig T-shirt, the Crewe

Alexander top, the tracksuit, the blouse,

the worn out denim, the dress, the skirt,

the half eaten, moth devoured,

ripped on purpose skinny jeans,

the bra, they never did anything wrong

to me.

The bra never took anybody’s house from them,

the denim skirt, crop top fashion,

the stockings, the flares, the butch

Metallica shirt or flower power Tie-

Die shirt, they never made anyone unemployed,

they never worried about getting

a crease

in their buttonhole and a cigarette

burn in the back of a patched up poncho

as they closed down factories,

sold off high street institutions

with a pound coin in their pocket

and a hundred million pounds in their

yacht safe.

Ban the suit, burn it like a foreign flag

in the desert, put on frog divers apparel

in the office, then perhaps

we might not just take

ourselves so seriously

and become a more fitting

human being.

 

Inspired by an Internet meme, August 2016.

Ian D. Hall 2016