My Putrid Jeans

My putrid jeans
They cling to me,
As I go about my day.
They stink and reek and make me gag
In many different ways.

The blue denim has now turned grey
Fading like all things.
The life has left the fabric
Devoid; its spinal remains.

I hope when an old man I am,
And a carer pushes me 'round in an old man pram
That I am treated better than those putrid jeans
Which I neglected long ago.