my rhymes are tight, my rhymes are neat-o, they extenuate what matters like an awkward Speedo

a poem about tweed

I find tweed both posh and stately

it's a fabric I admire greatly

be you English, French, or Swede

all look fetching in a tweed

(except for Romanians, 'cause they're mad gross)

there's dignity in woven twill

and whether chatting with George Will

or shooting birds atop some hill

you're bound to absolutely kill (pun hesitantly intended)

it's sense with which we all should breed!

O, how my lovelorn heart would bleed

to see a woman wearing tweed

even be she Margaret Mead

I wouldn't hesitate to plant my seed

the world's obsessed with Paris

but all I want is Harris

let's amend the Nicene Creed

and sanctify those wearing tweed