Today I found not in my shoe,
But rather in my stepping,
A lack of comfort without a clue,
A garb that was not fetching.
That feeling upon my inner thighs,
Turned out was rather wrong.
The friction that did give rise,
To an inseam that was too long.
And upon my stopping,
I felt that eyes were locking,
To survey the discomfort,
Upon my boat-side port.
For my fashionable pants with ironed crease,
Were none too much with a droopy seat.
So here I ponder,
Rather walking or rest,
The loin that wanders,
And gone unpressed.
Against a pant that’s not fitting,
Nor a leg that’s not gripping,
But a quirky sense that is uneasy,
For pair of pants far too breezy.
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