There must be
                           musty smelling
                           bolts of cloth
                           in heaven's store,
                           from which we are all cut.
                           Can it be otherwise
                           when
                           in the teeming streets
                           and the crowded subways
                           in the evening news
                           and the morning talk shows
                           similar faces appear,
                           some happy
                           some furtive
                           some anguished
                           some dazed,
                           but all
                           morphed
                           from those same
                           hundred bolts of cloth.

                           Count them on your fingers
                           as they pass
                           and offer their likeness
                           to your scrutiny
                           the tinker
                           the tailor
                           the soldier
                           the sailor
                           the fisherman
                           the king,
                           in all colors
                           and shapes
                           still so recognisably
                           true to the calling,
                           marked indelibly
                           by that first cut
                           from the bolt of cloth.
 

                           OK, make it a thousand bolts.