This garment is starting out quite queer.
You're supposed to make a pretty dress,
Not glue up some crunchy mess."
"Today," said Andrae, "I'll be not dismissed,
Look close and you will get the gist:
Trimmed in lavender's blue dilly-dilly
And in white valley of the lily,
The bulk is made of Spanish Moss."
To which Tim said, "Well, you're the boss,
But I fear that I can see your fate:
In our world the only Moss is Kate."
When complete, Andrae seemed chipper,
For he'd added even a zipper.
His confidence could not be bated
As he for the judging waited.
"We'll just have to wait and see,
But whoever's out, it is not me."
The judges frowned to see it walk:
"This is blossom not, nor delicate stalk.
It isn't flattering, it doesn't fit,
It looks as though it itches a bit.
This is quite a hole you've dug:
A woman planted, you've grown a rug."
Andrae bit his lip and almost cried.
He'd been brought low by designer pride.
Nevermore would Nick he see
Except in reruns on TV.