Hail to thee, o shirtless man
My neighbor to the north.
You deign not to don cloth above your waist;
Your skin is shirt enough for you.
Hail to thee, o half-clad neighbor.
It is not yours to listen repeatedly to Meatloaf encumbered by fabric.
Yours is not the torso upon which to hang shirt.
To mow the lawn with bare back is bliss.
Hail to thee, o sun-tanned man-about-the-house.
Leisure time is time not to waste on shirtfulness,
But is for wind and sun to caress your tattoos,
Rundgren tape blaring from your boom-box.
Hail to thee, o leather-skinned fellow.
Friends gather, shirtless friends, to laugh, to drink,
To work, to play, to make merry, to smoke Winstons.
Would that all men knew the joy of doffing the shirt.
Hail to thee, o shirtless salt of the earth.
You alone know the sad inadequacy of the polo and the button-down.
Neither sweatshirt nor golf shirt, turtleneck nor mock turtleneck, tank top
nor tee, bowling shirt nor fleece shall clothe you.
You care not for tabbed collars or french cuffs, for short sleeves
or breast pockets, for shirt tails or "I'm with stupid."
Touch you not cotton, wool, polyester, rayon, silk, poplin, linen.
Go not where ignorant shopkeepers require proper raiment.
But stand tall, proud and shirtless as the mighty oak.