When I was eleven years old in Nineteen Seventy-three,
Every boy sported a denim jacket – except for me.
A contemptible girl in my neighborhood pressed me to tell her why,
And all I could say was “I’m just not a denim jacket guy.”
I had just turned seventeen in Nineteen Seventy-nine,
And I purchased a three piece denim suit. It looked just fine
In the store on the hanger, but awful upon my inflatable frame:
I looked like an eggplant that clung to its vine in an acid rain.
I will turn seventy early in Two Thousand Thirty–two.
I’m going to don a denim sarong, and lounge with my retinue.
I hope there are six of them left when I finally pass away:
Six sturdy souls who refuse to wear denim to mark a lamentable day.