The Great Trouser Betrayal Poem by Frankline Shem O.

By Frankline Shem O.

A trouser's job is simple, see,
To keep things covered—mostly me.
But trousers, fickle as they are,
Can turn a hero to a scar.

But yesterday, they hatched a plot,
A wicked, sneaky, pantsy thought!
At lunch, I bent to grab my phone,
And—RIIIP! —they left my cheeks alone.

Pants are like lovers—strong, yet weak,
One wrong move and they let you streak.
Fate is cruel, and pants are mean,
And what I wore was past its seam.

The rip shot down, from back to sack,
My boxers read, 'Too Sexy to Work.'
The crowd just gasped, jaws open wide—
As I began my shameful stride.

A woman gasped, a dude yelled 'Nice! '
A grandpa laughed—then rolled the dice.
A grandma muttered, 'He's divine.'
A stranger whispered, 'Damn, that's fine! '

The air was cold, my soul had died,
My dignity was homicide'd.
And as I ran, my jeans confessed,
'You're free, my son. You've been undressed.'

A phone came out—oh no, oh no—
A dude just yelled 'SEND ME THE LINK, BRO! '

What? NOO!

I shuffled off in total shame,
But heard a voice that called my name,
'Nice show! ' she grinned—I wasn't mad.
I guess I'll take her number instead.