E. A. Woodward - Slaves to Fashion lyrics

The French "creator" rules the realm of style, With consummate sk** lures aping crowds along; With gaudy frills their pliant minds beguile, And binds in fashion's chains the hapless throng. With bated breath they wait the stern command Of fashion's priest; whose great creative mind Must mold the fashions of this glorious land-- The vulgar Frenchman clothes the world's refined. The rich and poor, the humble and the great, Must wear the garb these foreign lords devise; They dare not scorn the Frenchman's fashion plate But wear the garment, though the style despise. The world still yields to style's deforming sway, And nature's sweetest charms they fling away.