I love my shirt, I love my shirt;
I feel so happy when I’m in my shirt.
I love my shirt, in it I flirt;
I love it even when faded, my shirt.

I feel so groovy when I slink
into it as chicks slink in a skirt.
And in my jeans I also think
are just as comfortable as my shirt. . .
I love that shirt!

When they’re tattered, I don’t cry,
nor when they’ve holes or besmirched with dirt. . .
dirt on my shirt?

’cause when they are in a mess,
I wash them and have clean jeans and shirt
in a stream in which water spurts
or to the cleaner, who is quite pert.

I love my shirt, I love my shirt,
and I don’t love just my jeans and shirt—

Not just them. . . .

Beyond my shirt, not extending to skirt
but beyond shirt. . .shoes in the dirt.
The duds beyond my shirt I will not skirt.
I’ve a statement that is curt:
My other clothes I don’t want to hurt,
especially not the shirt,
my shirt. . . .

I’m clothing-alert;
In fact, I love my whole wardrobe.