Poems about pants

The biggest lie you ever told was,
"i love you. "

The biggest lie i ever told was,
"i love you too. "

And nobody likes a liar.

Carve your hard canoe,
Call it "the little mischief, "
Riding the riddle.

Fat Confederates in Camouflage Knee-Pants

General Robert E. Lee in in a slogan tee -
One cannot imagine such, nor yet
Dick Dowling defending old Galveston
Armed with made-in-China tiki torches

Doctor Martin Luther King adorned in bling -
One cannot imagine such, nor yet
The Little Rock Nine disfigured with tats
Or freedom marchers sporting designer sneaks

So, all you goofs and oafs and slobs and yobs,
Get out of the way; go find yourselves jobs

I remember days when you would don your garden pants,
The periwinkle ones with sherbet-splattered blooms
Of pink and orange dahlias.

They came to a halt just above your ankles,
Skimming the tongues and velcro latches of your shoes--
Size nine narrow.

And you would count for me as we held the spray over each plant,
Four hands on the hose: yours wrinkled with tall veins,
Mine monkey-bar calloused.

We waded through fern forests, pausing to make knee-shaped
Divots in the mulch, while the pants dampened
With dew from morning grass.

Seasons later, your garden was traded for a vase
Of carnations on a hospital nightstand,
And your sun for fluorescence.

And I returned to trace our route through the yard, alone,
Counting as I sprayed the blossoms, wearing for you
Your garden pants.

"Can we please still be friends? "
I think for a moment
'Everyone says that'
"But I mean it"
'Yes. Ok. '


I'll just add that to the list of lies you told me.

I ripped my pants...
Now i see something unpleasant...
I see something down below...
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YO CHILL BRO IT"S JUST MY KNEE!!!

This story I am about to unfold,
Is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
Yet, ends running up a painful lather.

Down the dirt road, from where he lived, when young,
Was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer then, did sell 'em.

Being a boy with several brothers,
Who were always doing as boys will do,
Didn't take long, for one to dare the other,
To steal them a watermelon, or two.

Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
Climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
As he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.

He looked around until he found the one,
That was the biggest that he could carry.
Cutting the vine, he hefted the melon up,
Running towards the fence, in a hurry.

Well, that old farmer was wise to boys
And had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
With his double barrel shotgun, he was poised,
To make sure, no more melons, he'd steal.

The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
Filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa's backside got peppered while he did trot.
I think nothing more need be said.

It's not polite to polarize
It's not appropriate to hate.
However, hatred can be part of the process
Of Spiritual Evolution.
Sure,
We're all children at heart,
But this can be a rough world
Full of unscrupulous people.
The Time Comes
When we all need to grow up!