Pants

Pants I battle with frustration. Sometimes I want to quit. In my never-ending effort To find some pants that fit. I begin with optimism But my poor head soon is spinning, Unhappily I discover, They don't make pants for real women. I don't know what they're thinking, These makers of our toys. Who should be making Blue Jeans. For adolescent boys. A woman is like a flower, Who blooms in her own way, And continues on to blossom Until her dying day. My pants are never long enough Unless they are to long. No matter what size I get, They seem to fit me wrong. I don't want breeches tight enough To make a sailor blush. The dogs all bark when I walk by, But the singing birdies hush. So many kinds to choose from, Could make a Bishop cuss I don't know why buying pants, Should stir up such a fuss. I ask but little of this life. And take what I can get. But I desire this little thing, A pair of pants that fit.