T H E   S T O C K I N G ' S   L A M E N T

A pair of ladies dainty hose, left lying on
            the floor,
Were heard to whisper to a skirt, that hung
            behind a door;
Believing I was fast asleep, as I lay in
             my bed,
I let the stockings chatter on, and this is what
            was said.

"'Tis strange how fashions alter, and how cruel
            is my lot,
They fasten me with this and that, and pull me
            from the top;
Sometimes they stretch me far too much – it
            simply can't be done,
Then growl, and look at me quite cross – if I
            should dare to run.

Some twenty years ago or more, I felt quite
            snug and warm,
So many friends lived near me, I never felt
            forlorn;
You, kind, dear skirt! hid me complete, from
            all the biting winds,
Another sheltered me from people's gaze, and, lots
            of other sins.

Another friend, was High Legged Boots, who
            saved me from the cold,
And Madams' drawers were ankle long, with
            frills to make them bold;
A garter graced my upper part, sometimes
            above the knee,
Or worn below – by daring ones, if out upon
            the spree.

Then skirts grew short – and drawers too, to
            match the length 'twas said,
The cold was felt a bit at first, so bloomers
            came instead;
High boots were shunned, and shoes were worn,
            with dainty little bows,
Between the shoes and bloomers now – was
            nothing else but hose.

This didn't seem to satisfy the crave for fashion's
            trend,
And one fine day the knickers came – to seal
            the bloomers end;
The garters disappeared as well – suspenders
            took their place,
And frilly things were draped around – to fill
            the vacant space.

Within the twinkling of an eye, the skirts grew
            shorter still,
While Undies kept the pace with them, as they
            climbed up the hill;
They named them Pantees at the start, but these
            were soon replaced
By Scanties, cut as short could be and edged
            with bits of lace.

They've reached as far as they can go, and I am
            left behind,
The space between my top – and they, brings
            trouble to my mind;
I cannot somehow reach so far, unless they
            make me longer,
And certainly I'll lose my top, unless I'm built
            much stronger.

On wintry days the wind is cold, no pleasure
            can I find
There's nothing I can shelter from, or dodge
            and hide behind;
And, as I shiver at the knees, I long for good
            old times,
When limbs were dressed to keep them warm,
            and not on modern lines."