Oh lifeless trousers across a chair are draped,
thy legs are crumpled, thy fly's agape.

Oh trousers how many miles you've walked
A thousand chairs or more you've mocked.

Oh trousers, lifeless across a chair
what thoughtless soul did throw you there?

Thy buttons are blind and belt loops frayed
and thy once sharp creases are baggy and vague.

Thy legs are snowed with cigarette ash.
Thy pockets worn shiny from loose hard cash.

Thy knees are thin, alas not from prayer.
What sad soul did cast you there?

Through vanity and fashion thy was made
but thy short hard life was doomed to fade.

No more walks in storm force gales
nor disco floors and splashes of ale.

No more parties will you ever see
nor a lover's hand on your lifeless knee.

The best thy can know is a mothball tomb
on the bottom of a closet in a disused room.

John Magee 1994