When I first saw you, you were hanging, by chance,
Off the ass of a muscle queen on line for Pier Dance.
Precariously suspended by inside drawstring.
How I wanted to have you! (The thought made me sing.)
The shorts, that is, silly! (OK, muscle queen, too.)
But not just any cargos. Old Navy would not do!
They had to be from Abercrombie & Fitch.
A perilous thought for this gay man (not rich).
So I trekked to the Seaport, the A&F store.
And bought myself two. (I couldn’t afford more.)
At last, I would be at fashionable heights.
And no longer feel scorned by fashion queen slights.
But somewhere in time, and against all odds,
These shorts came to stand for old men with dad bods.
Other styles came: dress shorts, gym shorts.
But still I stuck with you against other sorts.
Your pockets were hole-y, your legs they would bag.
I splashed myself peeing. I looked like a hag.
But still, I stuck with you, through thick and through thin.
And wondered when I could wear jean shorts again.
I saw said jean shorts on an old friend of mine.
And, wearing them, I thought he looked mighty fine.
Thoughts of Madonna and Sandra Bernhard.
Madame X wore them, and she’s no retard!
But jean shorts are older and even less stylish.
But I’m an outsider, so jean shorts I’ll buy-ish.