Walking past a medley of people,
different in all kinds.
A top of a tiled floor as bright,
as the toxic burning lights.
Looking down on to the floor,
Counting every single tile.
I fuigured, as enchanted as this place,
I would be staying for a while.
I could tell by the nervousness
of everyone staring at me,
that I looked oh so horrid
and as lonely as could be.
It probably wasn't that
I couldn't be so keen,
it probably was the brightness
of my old withered orange jeans.

These jeans couldn't be forgotten,
not on my first day
No, I'd be so terrible
for leaving them that way.
They wouldn't be so cool
If i never picked them out,
but here they are around my waist
wondering why I'm about to pout.
These old orange withered jeans,
they are my only friend.
from all the torn belt loops
to the soggy pant-leg ends.
I imagine all the time
what they would be if they were alive,
What they were like if they were born,
my little torn-size-5.
It would be a girl, a lovely girl,
one that is 15,
she would be very friendly,
be very tall and leen.
She would have orange hair,
the length longer than her neck.
And she wouldn't be afraid
to give a boy's cheek a little peck.
She'd have a great sense of fashion
One that would be loved,
by all the people in the room
and in the room above.
She'd be very popular,
the leader of the group,
she'd be good at sports, too,
to shoot a basketball through a hoop.

But she probably would be bad,
and leave me out in the dust,
She probably would't be
the best person I could trust.
So i'll probably keep her like this,
just a pair of jeans,
Just me and my orange jeans
Not a loser and a pair of queens.