A long, long time ago,
Maybe you remember
How young fellows used to dress with style
With buttoned shirts and pleated pants,
Wore ties to nearly every dance,
And they looked pretty handsome, for awhile

But jackets, sweaters, vests, slacks pleated
Gave way to Nehrus, fringed and beaded
Then came punk and preppy
And sort of Johnny Depp-y

I can’t remember when it was
They began to look like folks from Oz
The fashion trends just give me cause
To say, “Have they no pride?”

So
Guys, guys, please hitch up your Levis™
They are slippin' past your hipbone and almost to your thighs
Must whole world know about your underwear size?
Think you’re looking “fly” but, Bro, you’re no prize
Zip your fly, Bro, showin' no prize

Do you wear the Loom of Fruit™?
Are they striped or spotted? Oh, how cute!
(It’s more than we need to know)
And do you believe we *want* to see
The label on your BVDs™?
Hey, yo- save it for your skank, bee-yatch; ho

And I know that with your length of hem,
We won’t need to sweep up after gym
Just walk across the floor
We'll see no dust there anymore!

And now suburban teenage “wigger” schmucks
Try to cop-y “ghetto” looks from hip-hop bucks
I guess they think they’ll have more luck
With dates on Friday nights.

But we’re all singin’
Guys, guys, please pull up your low-rise
Jeans are sagging, boxers bagging; we’re averting our eyes
Is naught inside to hold them up? Lacking size?
That’s a fact you might not wish advertised
No, I don’t think I’d emphasize...

There are ten rips on your thighs alone
And moss shows above your pubic bone [1]
The tattoos are a sight to see
Now your chest is full of profanity
(Half of those words don't mean squat to me)
Make a choice, and name your destiny

Oh, and while your pants are hanging down
The fam'ly jewels just swing around
Your shorts' room: unconcerned?
No manners have you learned

And while denim gives a look at crotch
For-get it; we'd prefer: not watch
Such fashion scourges; quite a blotch --
-- These days; their pants low-ride

Please stop swingin'!
My, my, private parts gone awry
He ain't heavy, but a bevy of us wish: were more shy
And ragged boy should really zip up his fly
You're showin' us your stuff, but may we ask why?
Trollin' for a nibble? Nice try!

Belt: your helper; give you some more shelter
That bird flew off; what an eyeful, dealt her!
She said, "Oh my", and ran off fast
Your pants, they fell off your ass
So "player", hide, or you'll scare off lass
Think, impressed her? Britches guidelines: breaches, vast

In the old days, guys would neatly groom
'Stead of gangstas: imitate costume
At waist, they wore their pants
Oh, but today, they show their lance!

Hear our prayers: Keep your stuff concealed
By starching pants; from our eyes, shield
Appall: Each ball is now revealed
Today, 'cause pants low-ride

Yer stuff, yer flingin'
Dudes, dudes, must you show us your pudes? [2]
It's distasteful, below waist-ful, pants fall, Willy protrudes
That look annoys; stop thinkin' we're being prudes
It seems at this rate, you will all soon be nudes
Broodin' 'cause you're rude and so crude

Oh, and there they were, all so disgraced
A generation with no taste
There's still time left to start again!
So come on, Homes, get tasteful; get a clue
Wake up, and maybe read GQ [3]
We tire at the sight of your rear end

Oh, and as I watched him flash his sack
And reeled from stench of plumber's crack
A change'll do you well
Just make like turtle's shell!

And as nice dames would shy from such a sight
Highlight: your superficial blight
I saw spate of pulling pants up tight
The day the guys learned pride

They were singin'
"My, my, I'm an Ivy League guy
"Don't believe it? Just perceive it: Look, I'm wearin' a tie
"No more homeboy; I'm now a darn handsome guy"
And singin', "This, the women cannot deny
"Chat 'em up, and they all reply"

They put away their faded blues
And they bought themselves some leather shoes
The girls all smiled; returned display
They went down to the fine men's store
Where all gentlemen shopped, days of yore
And the salesmen have good taste, because they're gay

They walk the streets, and no one screams
They dress with pride, and a girl's eye gleams
Such fine things do they cloak in
Their habits, old, are broken

And the three men who, their clothes, design
Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Calvin Klein
They make them shine like sparkling wine
The day their old ways died

And they were singing'
"My, my, no more gangsta am I
"Sloppy: copy; hangin' floppy; only properly buy
"We're no longer boys, we're now men; we'll tell you why:"
Singin' "To our bad-ass ways, say good-bye
"To our hobo phase, say good-bye"

They were singin'
"My, my, reconstructed anew
"We earn praising that's amazing; ev'ry word of it's true
"And oh, the joys of makin' mod'lin' debut
"You will find us on the cover: GQ"




[1] TT's contribution, of course. No lady would write such a line, and neither would FG.

[2] Not a typo for "pubes", but short for "pudenda" (Latin) = genitals. (TT takes the blame for this one too -- obviously.)

[3] GQ = formerly known as "Gentlemen's Quarterly", a fashion magazine for men.