An Ode to Pants, Recently Departed

Searching for solace on the untimely demise of a good pair of pants, and seeking refuge in the famous laments of literature.

“What’s done cannot be undone.”
― William Shakespeare , Macbeth
“What’s done cannot be undone.”
― William Shakespeare , Macbeth

Friends, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury these pants, not to praise them;
The evil that men do wearing pants lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their cargo pockets,
So let it be with the pants… The fashionistas
Hath told you wearing pants was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath these pants answered it…
Here, under leave of fashionistas and the rest,
(For fashionistas is an honourable folk;
So are they all; all honourable folk)
Come I to speak in pants’ funeral…
They was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But fashionistas says these pants was ambitious;
And fashionistas is an honourable fashionistas….
They hath brought many captives home to the house,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did these pants seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, the pants hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet fashionistas says they was ambitious;
And fashionistas is an honourable folks.
You all did see that on the Walmart
I thrice presented them a fancified belt,
Which they did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet fashionistas says they was ambitious;
And, sure, they is an honourable fashionistas.
I speak not to disprove what fashionistas spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love these pants once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for them?
O judgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason…. Bear with me;
My heart is in the trashcan with these here pants,
And I must pause till it come back to me

Eh…that might be coming at it a tad high.

This here ol’ pair o’pants jus’ lived a life an’ just ripped out of it. I don’t know whether they was good or bad, but that don’t matter much. They was worn, an’ that’s what matters. An’ now they ain’t, an’ that don’t matter. Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an’ he says ‘All that lives is holy.’ Got to thinkin’, an’ purty soon it means more than the words says. An’ I woundn’ pray for a ol’ pair o’pants that’s ripped. They awright. They got a job to do, but it’s all laid out for’im an’ there’s on’y one way to do it. But us, we got a job to do, an’ they’s a thousan’ ways, an’ we don’ know which one to take. An’ if I was to pray, it’d be for the folks that don’ know which way to turn. Pair o’pants here, they got the easy straight. An’ now cover ‘im up and let’im get to the trash.

Seems too reverential to be honest. Perhaps something so simple in life should have simplicity in the afterlife. Perhaps a simple thank you will do. Perhaps after a few days some other pants will feel just as unnoticeably comfortable and functional. Life does go on, I suppose.

Life’s a jest, and all things show it.
I thought so once, and now I know it.

Or, at least, until I once again find some pants on the discount rack. Dare to dream the impossible dream, but such dreams no matter how grand must be the same for all folks everywhere: put on one leg at a time.

Writer. Mountaineer diaspora. Vet. Managing Editor @ordinarytimemag, Writings found @arcdigi & elsewhere. Writing about food, folks, & faith at Yonder & Home

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