Trousers.
That's right, Trousers. Lateral thinking wasn't much of a help, so it was simply a case of 'jump in and see where things go.
As such, "Maurice Nurple's Trousers" is one of those poems that just evolved from a few random phrases. The first line popped out of the blue, then the name of "Nurple" suggested purple as an obvious rhyme.
After that, a bit of alliteration in the first verse moved things on.
Maurice Nurple's Trousers
Maurice Nurple loved his trews:
A pair he’d bought ten years ago,
the shot silk showing different hues,
should he shashay to make them show.
He’d bought them in a little shop
He’d found by chance one day in May.
Yes, “Terry’s Trousers” made him stop
Whilst walking down an alleyway.
He stopped and then he went inside
amongst the jeans and pants and slacks.
At first he thought the choice too wide
but then he saw them on the racks.
The trousers captured his regard
with yellow/purple warp and weft,
so taking out his credit card,
young Maurice Nurple bought and left.
Initially the fit was snug
and could offend the multitudes
but wearing them was like a drug
so he cut down on fatty foods.
Once trim, he went out on the town
to socialise, to club, to dance,
to strut his stuff and boogie down,
thus showing off his silken pants.
As years went by the wear and tear
began, of course, to take its toll.
But Maurice had a certain flair
to darn and hide each little hole.
Where they had worn between the thighs
he’d patched them from the oddment bin
but soon he came to realise
that now the end was closing in.
Deciding, though he almost balked,
retracing steps from ten years past,
he felt a traitor as he walked
to find the shop, but was steadfast.
But “Terry’s Trousers” was not there,
Pulled down and there, where once it stood
a shop was selling fetish wear.
The clothes from there? As if he could.
Now Maurice still goes out at night;
His wardrobe’s still a thing to see.
His trousers now, not quite as tight,
are black and shiny PVC.
He does not miss his silken trews,
So soft against his derriere,
As they’re recycled; he’s still using
yellow/purple underwear.
A pair he’d bought ten years ago,
the shot silk showing different hues,
should he shashay to make them show.
He’d bought them in a little shop
He’d found by chance one day in May.
Yes, “Terry’s Trousers” made him stop
Whilst walking down an alleyway.
He stopped and then he went inside
amongst the jeans and pants and slacks.
At first he thought the choice too wide
but then he saw them on the racks.
The trousers captured his regard
with yellow/purple warp and weft,
so taking out his credit card,
young Maurice Nurple bought and left.
Initially the fit was snug
and could offend the multitudes
but wearing them was like a drug
so he cut down on fatty foods.
Once trim, he went out on the town
to socialise, to club, to dance,
to strut his stuff and boogie down,
thus showing off his silken pants.
As years went by the wear and tear
began, of course, to take its toll.
But Maurice had a certain flair
to darn and hide each little hole.
Where they had worn between the thighs
he’d patched them from the oddment bin
but soon he came to realise
that now the end was closing in.
Deciding, though he almost balked,
retracing steps from ten years past,
he felt a traitor as he walked
to find the shop, but was steadfast.
But “Terry’s Trousers” was not there,
Pulled down and there, where once it stood
a shop was selling fetish wear.
The clothes from there? As if he could.
Now Maurice still goes out at night;
His wardrobe’s still a thing to see.
His trousers now, not quite as tight,
are black and shiny PVC.
He does not miss his silken trews,
So soft against his derriere,
As they’re recycled; he’s still using
yellow/purple underwear.
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