Suits begin their lives as a single
Cell and must eat their parents
To put on weight. When weaned,
They fall from their nests
And begin to crawl on their cuffs.
It is a long journey from the country
To the cloverleaf highway, where
They over-winter before hitching
A ride on a battery of pipes
Heading for the industrial heart.
It is the lucky suit that will see
Its intended mannequin;
Most freeze in the snows.
Even luckier is the three-piece
That is tried on by its intended mate.
It is the job of a suit to attract
The opposite sex. This is accomplished
By flairing in a store window,
Displaying a many-colored pocket square,
Or by strutting about with pin striping extended.
If a mate is interested, he will brush
The price tag or nuzzle the fabric.
A suit is considered mated when worn
For the first time. It is now time
For reproduction. This is a most private
Act undertaken in the folds
Of an inseam. Should a suit be conceived,
They are blessed by special blue deacons;
The expecting hang like tonsils tickling the air
In the quiet closet with many saviors,
Each with its own spare
Button tacked to it with wire.
Everything is incensed and holy.
Moths may even alight.