A Letter from The Toff

The mind is as an alchemist's mixing chamber; rude elements in but pure gold out, that is, assuming the functioning of the apparatus is not befouled somehow. For example, there is an all hours club where I have many times witnessed the unsavory behavior of young adults suffering neurologically from the overconsumption of unwholesome products.

The side effects are too numerous to list without producing the unwarranted temptation of a yawn, but I skip to the worst of the matter by reporting the diminishment of good taste in refined and rarefied aesthetics.

And so struck away is the manly affinity for the cravat and French cuff, tragically supplanted by the ubiquitously medieval hoody. Shockingly so since the outlaw Sir Robin of Locksley, even in his illiterate era, knew the intrinsic value of having his hat entirely separate from his doublet.

How many gentlemen, I ask, might have continued to accessorize with the sartorial vigor of a Prince or Adam Ant were it not for the dehumanizing popularity of country music and rap? Those areas of unholy endeavor now form an obscene union best exemplified by the common display of the Carhartt work hoody now available at your local esteem and honor free stockist.
 
The situation has left our republic in a state of international disgrace since many nations feel strongly that if Yankees will no longer perform manual labor their very own selves, then why will they not at least dress themselves well as they lounge? They understand that we are not to be hated for wishing to lounge since all creatures crave a proper lounging now and then, but why must we look shabby as we do so?

The scene is particularly heinous here in Sifton's west end where, thank goodness, competent rhyme is making a comeback. At least we have that satisfaction. I know this personally from an encounter with a local poet who refuses toilsome diurnal excursions but will sometimes be seen between twilights stapling verse onto helpless wooden structures, each sheet a recyclable graffito, I suppose.

Here is one of his latest,

Oh most melancholy Sifton!
Regain your pride by dressing well.
Bear no more the stain of piston
Or brand of product that you sell.
Vend instead your central digit
Directly at your whorish boss
Whenever he begins to fidget
That your street fashion creates loss!
Suggest instead a new dress code
That emphasizes self respect
To free you from self loathing mode
Which your boss thinks is so correct.
Entreat that better sales may incline
If workers dressed in Calvin Klein!

-The Midnight Sonneteer!

He seems an affable enough bloke and I even suggested at one point in our parlance that he someday attempt the commixture of his scribblative with some vivid toffery.

He cheerfully assented, adding that he could not fathom how that sort of alliance would fail to fashion a legacy of both honor and esteem in hilariously copious allocations.

-In all manner of probity,

-The Siftonian Toff