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.