A Tailor’s Bespoke Lament

He wants to clothe her legs in Harris tweed,
to hide the naked impudence of her knees.
The tailor looks away, awkward and ashamed,
to keep his dignity; he refuses to be blamed
for her blatant disregard for morals and tradition.
She pouts and with her lashes bat him to submission.
Forward future isn't cricket; it’s not the way to be.
He keeps his eyes averted, he doesn’t want to see
the sheer gold-wire boob tube and the scarlet skirt,
the lurid modern mode that makes a tailor’s heart hurt,
bound by the measuring tape he keeps around his neck,
outlined with the chalk that marks decorum and respect.