I spied a man in the dead of July
Wearing a sweater and I wondered why.
I neared, then I knew, the closer we were.
That wasn't a sweater, it was his fur!

Please put your shirt on. I'm beggin' ya, please.
Cover the glory mine eyes shouldn't see.

Not Rembrandt, Not Munch, not even Maurice
Found the armpit fit for a masterpiece.
Cover yourself! You're not going to melt.
Sharing is proper, but not with your pelt!

A shirt for pity's sake! Veil your thick hide!
(Or show some mercy and stay home, inside.)

Spaghetti strapped bosoms! "Good Lord!" I shout,
"Bowling ball twosomes! Don't let them out!"
When she bends over and her end is near
There's unwelcome cleavage, both front and rear!

Oh, please put your shirt on. Something with sleeves.
Preferably something that hangs to your knees

He's girded by Spandex. Out of it splurts
Piedmonts of flesh where there should be a shirt.
Those blurry tattoos! Those slag navel rings!
Complex complexions! Unspeakable things!

Put a shirt on right now! Forebear! Say no
To the urge to show surplus dermato!

This summer season, I ask that of you.
Get dressed! Weí'l address Request Item Two.
It's one last wish from a weary-eyed coot --
The return of the one-piece bathing suit.

-- Steve Stinson