Fitting Torture

There's one thing that can truly vex
about the lovely fairer sex:
they cannot pass a clothing shop
without a sudden reckless stop-
no brake or turn light, understand?
No slowing down or wave of hand.
"I'll just be one (or two, or five)
minutes." That's the kind of jive
they try to feed you, though you know
they'll prob'ly be an hour or so,
and what are you supposed to do
while she goes 'Um' and 'Ah' and 'Ooh'?
The boredom's grand, it's continental;
half an hour can drive you mental,
and then she grabs a pile of stuff
ten skirts, ten tops, is that enough
to try on in the fitting room?
I'd rather rest inside my tomb;
it's cruel, unfair, it's inhumane.
Outside I faithfully remain
while snarling dragon ladies glare
and wonder why I'm lurking there.
I know their thoughts, I read their minds,
"He wants to look at our behinds!"
"See how his evil eyelid flickers;
he wants to watch us in our knickers!"
SECURITY, DEPARTMENT THREE
A LOITERER IN THE LINGERIE!!
But wait, the worst is yet to come;
"How do I look?" and "Does my bum
look huge in this or vast, immense?"
Oh, come on now, I'm not that dense!
The only answer that's worth phrasing
is, "Oh, My God, you look amazing!"
"I'm not quite sure," she coos and then...
... back to the fitting room again!
The only thing that can console
is when I spot a kindred soul;
the glassy eye, the hangdog look,
the sense that fortune long forsook.
Together we commiserate
and plot revenge against each mate.
At last the torture session's ended.
Please God may it seem I've pretended
enjoyment of this shopping spree.
"My sweet, I pray, a word with thee;
Together with my new friend Rolf,
Tomorrow I'll be playing golf!"