Twenty three black T shirts
all out drying in the mid-July sun.
Clothesline runs even deeper,
it stretches beyond the horizon.
So hang 'em up, hang 'em all up,
watch them all swinging so slightly in the breeze.
Hang 'em up, let them sway there,
all that I need is a single pair of jeans.

Twenty three black T shirts
just ain't enough to get the job done.
Got the torn-knee disease, it's no secret
but I don't remember telling anyone.
Shredded denim, scarlet skin 'cause
these hot rays been beatin' on my knees.
Outta money, outta time, I don't care,
I got seven ******* pairs of summer jeans.