Sonnet 273

What is this lust for clothes that we so dress
Much like a peacock in his stately flame,
Ablaze with frills and colors that profess
Our worth to others that know not our name?
‘The garment makes the man’ it has been said,
Yet sure it seems it makes the woman too,
As actress on a stage, she holds in stead
A glittered wardrobe that pressed wealth accrues.
Few men can match their mate in habiliment
Though not themselves immune to suave attire,
And of their mate’s bright plumage they may taunt
That dowdy hen unto proud cock aspires;
It is a show the wisest may condemn —
Pageantry where nakedness is the end.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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