The Taylor

The Taylor’s an ordinary man He spends his time in his workshop Or on the cobblestone streets, searching For lengths of exotic fabrics and shimmering threads His hands are covered in bruises Made from the pricks of needles over and over The Taylor’s an ordinary man He lives a lonely life, sewing and stitching He looks at the girls passing by in fine clothes Clad in swathes of silk and feathered bonnets He wishes he could don his own works And become a dashing nobleman The Taylor’s an ordinary man He loves his regular clients, though they’re an odd group One’s a tinker, an inventor, eccentric and bespectacled, One’s a captain of the navy, rigid and prone to his pipe One’s a simple soldier fighting a war he never signed up for One’s a poet, a favorite of the Queen’s court, mysterious elegance The Taylor’s an ordinary man He’d never leave his job, for who else would provide? But sometimes he wishes to be in their shoes To be dressed in finery and pearls, bowing before the Queen To be at the helm of a grandiose ship, sailing the vast sea To be in a cluttered workshop, ideas buzzing in his head The Taylor’s an ordinary man He knows clothes can speak as loud as words And so he’ll keep on sewing and stitching It really is fine, for him to fade into the background But maybe in another land, he’d be The hero of his own story.