Don’t Take The Closet Metaphor Too Seriously

If I had a tuxedo
Made of golden water
Whose glamor under starlight
Has not been equaled yet

You would find it in my closet
Hidden in the darkness,
For when I don tuxedoes
I do not want to get wet.

So bedecked in wool and cotton
I dream of yonder maid unknown,
Her gown a golden fountain.
On her my heart is set.

And I think of my tuxedo
Growing stagnant on its hook
Because its owner fears the chance
Of some unearned regret.

I hope my fountain is patient
For the tuxedo she hasn’t met.

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