Ode to Olde Underwear

How my briefs are tattered, torn, Leaving me so sad, forlorn. Sunday undies, (w)hol(l)[e]y white, Do not fit the Bill just right. When I wear ‘em I get edgy, ‘Cause they gather, instant wedgy. And, oh yes, the breezy draft On my cold, uncovered aft. Say, now, Apples, Grapes and Peaches, Can you fix the gaping bre(e/a)ches? “Yes,” say they with glee, not gloom, “We’ll fetch new ones from the loom!” WmAnderson, 2/15/1978