[A London paper learns from a West End tailor that many people
in the North and Midlands now achieve a higher standard of
dress than the "man about town."]
If perchance you would gaze upon those whose array's
Of impeccable texture and cut,
It is futile to go to Pall Mall or the Row,
Now the haunt of the second-rate nut;
Take a train (G.N.R.), for example, as far
As Cleckheaton or Cleethorpes-on-Sea,
Where each male that you meet, from his head to his feet,
Follows Fashion's most recent decree.
A legitimate claim to sartorial fame
Can be made by the locals at Leek,
Whose apparel is apt to be ruthlessly scrapped
After having been worn for a week;
Trousers bag at the knees in no town on the Tees,
And the Londoner has to admit
That he cannot compete against Bootle's _élite_,
And that Percy of Pudsey is IT.
Wigan's well in the van, for her sons to a man
Are the ultimate word in cravats
And are said to outdo even Cheadle and Crewe
In the matter of collars and spats;
But the pick of the lot is the privileged spot
Where the smart set, the quite _comme il faut_,
Have a mentor and guide who is famed far and wide
As Bertie the Bridlington Beau.
* * * * *