These streets, who knew,
Are the perfect gallery
Of generational strife:
You say my pants are too tight
To be pickpocketed;
Even if they could be
Thieves wouldn’t find much—
You say my pants are too tight
And I won’t be able to have kids;
Even if they were
Those kids wouldn’t find much—
You say my pants are too tight
And don’t look professional
But smoke and mirrors
Have already choked the vine
And smothered the fruits—
Even if it were the pants
This monkey suit is doing me no favors