I press vestments in mothballs; pests on cloth crawl when it's edible,
The damage they manage to do when they chew is incredible.
A menace to my men's thread is this horde entomological;
Their order's Lepidoptera, Latin etymological.

Sometimes there's nothing left but dust when they've degusted, had their fill,
I get mad when they've had my hat, disgusted, I get madder still.
I've woolen footwear, Uggs I choose each time that I have bought some shoes,
These ugly bugs chewed 'em, ate through 'em, so now I have got the blues.
These ugly bugs chewed 'em, ate through 'em, so now I have got the blues.

Moths multiply and clamber, munching gladrags that are glamorous,
With camphor I must ply their lairs; must die, their affairs amorous.
Yes, I'll turn to my well-stocked-with-weapons-to-fry-moths arsenal--
I'll draw the line at tryin' turpentine for wettin' arsonal.

Yes, I'll turn to my well-stocked-with-weapons-to-fry-moths arsenal--
I'll draw the line at tryin' turpentine for wettin' arsonal.

My wife knitted for me a pretty pair of fitted mohair socks,
The moths launched a lunch attack, socks are gone, and there are nowhere frocks.
These insects ingest woolen goods; open-mouthed, they're not loquacious,
They wrecked my V-neck and its hood; I moan and pout: "They're voracious!"

I ask my spouse as she leaves house: "Get pullovers of cotton, please."
But she was soused, misheard my grouse: "Get wool clothes, dear, on shoppin' sprees."
She shambled home, smelled like a sheep, neck-deep in duds moth kin adore,
She'd even glommed a felt hat and a cheap angora pinafore.
She'd even glommed a felt hat and a cheap angora pinafore.

So now we're both adorned with moth hors d'oeuvre, baa-baa-esque uniforms,
A cornucopic feast from ovine beasts: capricorns, ewes wit' horns.
They make short work of matter animal, like wool stoles and light twills,
I'll hold these balls like bones when I'm shooting craps and scatter white pills.

I'll open up the closet door, abhorred at clothes unravelin',
I'll pour pellets into my mitts--pitch camphorated gravel in.
(I had a chic sheep chapeau, so beau when on my tresses it sat;
Pests infested, ingested, digested. . .I'm divested of hat.)

Three days later, waiting for me in clothes nook are moth-corpse mummies,
I may go get an agent to place a book called "Moths for Dummies."
The closet's dark. . . can hardly see. . .think my eyes need be atropined,
The spotlight sparks, and what greets me: my ties severely atrophied.

Though morally the quarry for the cloth of your vestments should be
Sheep shorn and not threads oily, but moths don't ingest esters poly.
But how soon I forget and zoom to get dressed in garments of wool.
They rest in my closet; in swoop the pests, a swarm that's not yet full.

So then I must again turn to my fry-'em-alive arsenal.
This time I don't draw the turpentine line--firemen five alarms pull.