Call it a sonnet

The  fashion forward women walk by me
I can see what I  don’t want to see
Their leggings  cling audaciously  and close
I ask for mercy from the Holy Ghost

Now I fear I called  erroneously
God won’t mind what organs all can see
If he wanted  excess modesty
He’d have put it on the BBC

I guess  it’s economic for no more
Can girls afford the dresses Eve once wore
Although I made some out of purple sheets
From Eden I  arranged the Fall in pleats

I confess to stealing sewing  bees
Now I suffer psychotherapy