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.

ageangstanxietybirdclothesrhyme

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