When some fellows get to be

a certain age they blimp out

their middles, got no hips, no rump, just

plump — them poor

hobblies wobble to the mailbox every morning

desperately clutching waistbands hoping their

Trousers will not droop down to white knobbly

ankles — then when johnny hears

that old cobble whooping about stroopy

drawers he rears up and roars

and he snatches detaches his own suspenders

and hands them over — fellow

puts them on, clipping the ends smartly to his belt,

Wobbles both shoulders till the straps are comfortable, sighs with

relief and struts like a smugful peacock.