A shortish neck imprisoned in a ruff,
Skin-fitting sleeves that show a stint of stuff,
A waist promoted halfway up the back,
And not a shred that's comfortably slack;
A multitude of buttons, row on row,
Not there for business—merely made for show;
A skirt whose meagre gores necessitate
The waddle of a Chinese lady's gait;
A "busby" toque extinguishing the hair,
As if a giant hand had crushed it there—