To change a Leopard’s shorts

I don’t suit spots, or rather they
Do not fit me, though garish, gay
This leopard-print lies round my neck
To warn off those whom sport would wreck
With vulgar overtones and spoil
A wilderness of threadbare toil
Nay, not to fashion can I cleave
Where company requires alleviation
Of monotony made up of rows
And rows of me.

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