Grease on a Blue Silk Shirt

You know, you know of course, only a mad man would buy a blue silk shirt. But having bought one, the mad man -- let's call him Loon, from now, shall we? -- would take care of it, we could only assume. Darn! 'twas a dark day, Loon knew it. He had only woken up and he rummaged the rightmost box near the headboard to fix his looking glasses. Bespectacled, Loony-Moony, scratched his head to let go of a tuft of hair, and wiped saliva off his mouth as he saw many more tufts of his precious, fallen hair. Then he cussed at the day, pulled himself together and flipped right a sore elastic of his old underwear. Soon enough, Loon held an old toothbrush, with toothpaste, you might have guessed, in his jaw, moved his face this way and that, and had his teeth done less tarnished than just one minute before. And then, I'm sure you know, he took his bath, pulled himself into his clean underwear and vest, combed his anointed hair neat, and wore his looking glasses. Soon enough, he was ready to wear our blue silk shirt. Loon o'Loon, Loony-Moony, Moony-Loony, our man had worn the blue silk shirt we feel most curiously for. Not only that, he moved inside a wonderfully tailored navy blue khaki pant, and heaved a sigh at his mirror. Soon enough, Loon had had his breakfast, his socks and shoes put on. He was going to work. Yes, just like most men of his time did, Loon was working. He was just about to pull his motorbike on the road when decided to inspect the fittings on the bike. Oh dear, oh dear, he bent over from near the headlight, when the bike's sensitive little clutch oozed some grease over our blue silk shirt. Poor Loony, tch, he had to go back home.