I shall, to lift me from the mire

To modest elegance aspire,

And while I may not be a Byron

At least I show my shirts the iron,

But I aver, ‘tis not a sin, sir,

T’eschew cravat and tie a Windsor,

Nor needs the knot be too pedantic

Or florid, loud and corybantic

Or, dare I say it, Dilettantic!

No, but let time’s arrow fly!

And all in haste I’ll wear a tie,

But tie with care my Church’s laces

For I’ve a hunt in other places;

My love’s mama told her, to choose

A lover you should not refuse,

Judge but the fineness of his shoes.