A young philosopher

A young philosopher went every day

To watch a seamstress toil at her machine.

He’d watch her patch a hole or mend a fray,

And alter for the overgrown and lean,

Until, at last, because of all he’d seen,

As if awoke from prayer, he raised his head,

Then grabbed her Singer in a fit of spleen,

And smashed it ‘gainst a wall, and stitches shred:

“The time has come to sew without the thread!

From old and barbarous ways at last set free,

From all such scissors, needles, strings — instead

Free cloths will join in natural harmony,

Equality, fraternity, oh yes! —

A seamstress need but watch ‘em form a dress.”