Snip Not My Girdle

Snip not my girdle, Your Honour,
should I fall to the floor
like a badly leant guitar.

Snip not my girdle, Mademoiselle!
Hold instead a cheap vial
of salts to my nostril.

Snip not my girdle, kind Sirs,
with those wicked shears.
Think of the satin! Spare the gauze!

Snip not my girdle, dear Knight.
You can't contemplate
the fleshball beast you'd emancipate.

Snip not my girdle, Cherie.
The bones have warped to me.
Left off the anvil, they'd surely die lonely.

Snip not my girdle, Mother,
and pass on to the letter
this note, and my best, to the coroner.