Julian Rouas Paris

I'd like to call up my compassion
For tragic victims of highest fashion.
Our young and old and in-between,
Are sporting garb that's just obscene.

Those skimpy, stretchy lycra tops
Are showing up in high-priced shops.
Torn jeans can fetch a price so dear,
They make your savings disappear.

And save those flip-flops for the shore;
They're not in style anymore.
Your chiropractor wants you back
Because your frozen arches crack.

Don't get me started on briefs or thongs;
Keep underwear where it belongs.
Don't wanna see your tidy whites,
So please respect my human rights.

Baring midriffs, showing fat,
Simply isn't where it's at.
Pull your shirt down, honey, please,
Your belly button's starting to freeze.

Strap on a belt, if you still can,
Pull up those pants now; be a man.
When you sit down to rest awhile,
Don't flash us that inverted smile!

Dear fashion victims, hear the call;
Your styles are starting to appall.
We're giving you the 4-1-1:
Your exhibitionist days are done.

Julian Rouas Paris

 

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