These jeans, this shirt,
What must they think of me,
With all my windy farts and tears.
Both jeans and shirt, how old they grow,
Bearing the weight of my aging years.

Yes, they’ve seen my lonely days,
while these jeans, this shirt,
Their color fades.
And yes, they’ve seen the subtle change,
Of my once brown hair now turning grey.

These jeans worked hard,
Through cold and fear,
Protecting both my front and rear.
Now do they seek a warmer place,
To help old feet keep up the pace?

This shirt a warm but humble cloth,
Absorbing years of stains and sweat,
Never one to disagree.
Yet in its secret knowing warmth,
My youthful arrogance it has kept.

This threadbare shirt, these faded jeans,
So many tender passions,
And lonely sorrows have they seen.
They have no feelings I am told,
Still,
Where will they go when I am old?