What would I do without my jeans
That tattered pair of blue?
Somehow it seems they are never clean,
But what can a person do?
My jeans are my salvation
They protect me from the cold.
Through all of my creations
I know they'll never grow old.
Faded and torn and patched and cluttered
Wrinkled and ripped and worn and buttered,
Old as they grow, younger I'll be
Cause when I die they'll be buried on me.
