Years after Missouri crossed the Pond

( after T.S.Eliot )
  
   
I spoke in Londonderry overtones,  
Dripping pedigree from my facial bones.  
Impeccably my tailor did the pins,  
He knew where to hide away a man’s sins.  
   
By then of middle age one couldn’t tell  
Where jowling had begun or where it fell.  
Seemed like a love affair with nip and tuck,  
And never once by needle was I stuck.  
   
For here I declare this testimony:  
His diligence of Semite art on me.  
The youth I once held upright years ago,  
I bow allegiance to each stitch he sewed.  
   
No matter if or how he worshiped God,  
It didn’t bother me if it be odd.  
Not Atlas on his shoulders bore the Earth,  
But padded shoulders of my tailor’s worth.