Blue jeans make me look so lazy. Seamstress checks my can
And my thighs. Then she smiles. Says, "You look like a suit man."
Haberdasher will take cash 'r credit cards in hand.
I'm not skinny, so she'll pimp me up, but charge me many grand.

A jeans freak, I used to be
Hanging off my hips of flab
In my back
You saw crack
The buns weren't hard—in fact, they'd sag.

Pantaloons man, when I'd stand.
There was nothing holding 'em.
No hooks on, they'd sink down
It was lurid—you'd see my bum.

She says, "You must try chenille
Yes, my dear, so have no fear—
No one will look at you queerly."
Then she says loudly, boldly:

"Bold those clothes—now try these pants, sir.
How about a shirt and tie, eh?
I say, you'd look sweet in linen
Do not worry, you will not look gay.