Tailor Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Many men were ‘made to measure’
when they led a life of leisure,
while working women wept at home
and sowed their fingers to the bone.
Silken suits were deemed a pleasure
and of all things seemed a treasure,
but times have changed, I’m left alone
with only memories to moan.

It is undoubtedly a fact,
despite my stylish taste and tact,
that only ‘ready-made’ and racked
can current customers attract.

Yet should someone special come
select a suit of cashmere greys,
flannel trousers finely spun,
camel blazer, mohair maze,
should some young lad look out for fun
in lilac slacks, the latest craze,
like all the trade I suffer from
skilled labour shortages.
It puts a strain upon income,
Cutting cloth that never frays,
for when the weekly sums are done
as my accountant rightly says:
'custom as a custom,
no longer really pays.'