I’m not a fancy-dressed man.
In the days of ego, I wore the finest threads,
but they were baggy, never disco.
Long ago, I had a big boss often shout,
“Man! You look sharp!”
My ego loved this but he was always drunk.
We could not perform if not sharp.
But that was a lie.
People look at me like I’m a lame slum bag.
I don’t appear to care.
I love my eccentric, wild-ass ties.
My wife cringes in shivery embarrassment.
She tries to buy me plain, boring ties.
Nylon shit from Santa, but I am grateful.
I love my sharp shirts, cheap pants,
unpolished shoes and missing coat.
Really, I never want to dress up again.
I don’t care what is printed on my t-shirts.
Give me my dirty jeans,
tennis shoes, a tad dirty.
I’m not a fancy-dressed man.
I want to lounge in ugly soft clothes,
and steam hot in my spiritual desires.
I would love me without a tie!
stillfugue 