I want to fit into my Birthday Suit.
It used to be small and soft and cute.
It fit like a glove with room in the boot.
Yes, I want to fit into my Birthday Suit.
I could buy an ensemble off Savile Row;
Double-breasted with waistco’t; gold buttons in row;
Fashioned and tailored with savoir-know;
It’d cost lots of money and contain all my dough.
Gone are the days when first it was fine;
Now stretched, distorted, all bezier lines.
The volume integral I cannot define.
Reminiscing my salad days [pureéd], when first it was mine.
Stretched thin in places, and darted midway;
Taut on the ends, support catenary sway.
Avian footprints imprint both my eyes;
and inverted horseshoe lacklucksters my smile.
Twice the compliment;
Allotted just one.
My beard-holder’s doubled;
With more like to come.
Furniture Disease, diagnosed not in time;
No treatment or tonic may halt the decline.
Gravitation. Migration. Direction? The floors;
What once was my chest, occupies now my drawers.
I suppose I’ll just have to love what I’ve got;
Content with evidences of battles well fought.
Sure, right, tattered, battered, in places threadbare;
The darned thing a patchwork of sewn notions of care.
The elbows gone shiny; cuff buttons not there;
I know not the when, less know I the where.
Rumpled and crumpled with creases and tears;
Rump fabric well felted where posterior meets chair.
I realize it now. I have all I’ve sought;
A lifetime of love, wonderful memories wrought;
My Birthday Suit given, but this one, I bought;
I don’t miss what I once had, near much as I thought.