"All ador'd my angora..." Incomplete Abecedarial Paean to Plaid (A through L)

All ador'd my angora,
nor'd none dare ignore a
chemise made of Aertex I had.
Then I glimps'd Alan Ladd
on my iPad: Egad!
Was the shirt Al was girt with a plaid...?

Burlap broadcloth's unique,
and who'd not love batik,
nor'd a Battenberg lace be too bad.
But along bounded Brad:
weren't those jodhpurs he had?
And their braces and belts? All were plaid!

Cashmere, camel's hair, chintz,
cloth of gold (if mere hints).
Cloth which starts with C? Chiliads! Scads!
(Note: the PM of Chad 
(K. P. Deubet's the lad)
rules in compets and boubous -- all plaids!)

Damask, double-knits, duck,
with some denim (what luck!)
thusly dress'd, I'd resemble De Sade.
Then I thought of me Dad,
deadbeat dryad gone mad.
(Dad died dancing in dirndls of plaid.)

Each electronic textile,
in plain-, stripe- or check-style,
which to moi ensemble I'd add
called for stringent proscription
of cotton (Egyptian).
Egad! No more plaid? 'Tis too sad.

For sale: five five-Farad
capacitors. Where had
I found them to wear? In an ad.
Who'd foment such a fad?
Flavor Flav, who's a cad?
Nope! That fellow, by far, prefers plaid.

Give me gingham, then Gore-Tex.
A gauze pinafore next.
Then gabardine gowns of your dad's.
He'd the gonads to don 'em --
with quatrefoils on 'em.
Still, I'd be most glad to get plaids. 

Hand me hair shirts in herringbone,
hopsacks (to which I'm prone).
Harris Tweed widow's weeds? Rad!
(Did I spy, on your helipad,
once ev'ry hebdomad,
CONELRAD op'rants in plaid?)

I've loved fine Irish linen
and cotton that's Indi'n.
My feelings for these? Ironclad!
Till a book -- 'twas an Iliad
bought in Islamabad --
introduced Islamic plaid.

Jeremiads (my own)
flow in triads: I moan,
"Jerseys, jutes, Jacquard suits? Those I've had."
Now jihadists enlist
in Jamdani. I'm pissed:
they join up, jup'd and jodhpur'd, in plaid.

Kanye's kid brother styled --
to look kooky and wild --
all my kaftans and kurtas. Good lad!
But, like most city slickers,
he bypassed my knickers,
my kilts and my kicks. None are plaid!

Linsey-woolsey? A trace.
Leather briefs I embrace.
I've more linens than Vlad Lenin had,
who, in lush lingerie
done in lambs-wool lame,
long held sway. (Why's his loincloth not plaid?)