The ladies that he spoke to, soft and sure,
Believed in dresses longing to be made
Of no material but that very shade
Of fabric he laid out. So his demure
Debs’ fingers would dip gracefully to azure
Yards of silk, and his housewives’ eyes, displayed
A deep vermillion with a silver braid,
Would find themselves seduced by its allure.
On flipping round the CLOSED sign for the day,
Before easing his scissors on their hook,
The pleasant-suited draper paused a while
At his tall mirror, practising his smile,
Trying to figure quite how he might look
Now all his many ladies were away.