Fashion Crime

I am not willing to share a picture
Of my worst fashion crime
Because the image would burn holes
In the retinas of the innocent
And tarnish the minds of the youth
And make all that is holy, unholy

It would unmake your fondest childhood memories
And cast a shadow on your future
It would drive you to tequila — and if you’re already there
Force you to drink gin straight from the bottle
And I’m not talking about the good stuff, either
But bargain basement gin covered with oily dust

I will share a mental image, if you dare to read further
A short pair of cut off jeans, torn
Re-sewn together like parts of Frankenstein
Embroidered with symbols of anarchy
A red circled A embellished with black ink
And a rip in the crotch purposely left open