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 next poem words home |
THE SUIT The suit, Once a vestment of prestige Now a vestige. To wit, Mormons wear them And faith healers; What's more, So do bouncers, Bounders And thugs And dealers of drugs... And John Redwood, For whom is lent A genteel facade Which masks the mad, The dangerous, The intellectually inept.... We live in a time Where suit and repute are equally unchecked. What I object to Is the impression of wealth. Where respect is due, Not for the soul of a man, But for the shine of his shoe Or the cut of his drape which cloaks the flab In endlessly differing shades of drab. But I'm not taken in. Gandhi didn't wear one. Nor do Friends of the Earth Or doctors in Rwanda, Or leaders of Labour who prefer, On formal occasions, the well worn reefer. These are the ones to whom I defer. Even presidents like to be seen In jeans. A precedent, Maybe, For those that commute Or incline to the brutish pretence of repute. Yes, gone for a burton, My respect for the suit. © Thomas Hardy 1996 |
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