The theme for the JVG Radio Method March 25th, 2007 was “PANTS”.

Click to play Pants…[audio:JVG_Poem20070325.mp3] Accompaniment on slide guitar supplied once again by Ed Bates.


for my birthday, my aunt marian, a seamstress of some note
offered to tailor me some dacks
navy was suggested or college grey with a fleck
a sensible yet dapper pair of slacks

sensible hangs lonely in the wardrobes of the young
where comfort plays a losing hand to style
who cares about the weather or damage to your spine
if you’re looking good the cost is well worthwhile

houndstooth or herringbone didn’t ring my bells
i fancied something more flamboyant and slightly spartan
a pair of nut crushing stove pipes, hipsters, no cuffs
and they had to be in red and yellow tartan

it took a bit of practice just to get the bastards on
everything below the waste went numb
undressing was as easy as sending rocket ships to mars
required assistance from both sisters and my mum

teething problems sorted we adapted to each other
and in my mind i’d found the perfect fit
i moved as well as someone in a looser cut of pant
except i couldn’t walk, bend down, turn or sit

if i had to take a leak, just to navigate my fly
i needed multi grips and sundry other tools
once the deed was done, my work had only just begun
it took an hour to repack the family jewels

flatulence at times, can be the worst of social crimes
but if i farted it lay trapped between my cheeks
those pants encased my butt and held it tightly shut
sometimes they were trapped in there for weeks

my aunt would curse and scream, each time i split a seam
then resolved to reinforce the arse
i didn’t mind the patch, but it made me itch and scratch
instead of cotton she used fibreglass

sharpies gave me hell, cause they knew very well
i couldn’t run, that made me easy prey
what’s the odd blood nose, when you’re in your favourite clothes
besides those pants would tear if i tried to run away

one afternoon out walking, i heard two young mothers talking
as they strode past me pushing baby strollers
check out that wanker’s pants, he has to be a nance
looks like derek from the bay city rollers

my confidence was shattered, my pants no longer mattered
those words pierced my ego like a blade
i thought i looked like johnny thunders, jimmy hendrix, stevie wonder
or at the very worst dave hill out of slade

i gave those strides their final drop at the local salvo shop
in minutes they were sold, forever gone
i left there in distress, they’d ended up as fancy dress
on some prick trying to look like elton john

the moral if there is one, the way you see yourself
is rarely the same as others do
all you sycophants, might think you wear the pants
but in reality those pants are wearing you

© Copyright 2007 Ian Bland

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