Hot Damn... them Yoga pants

I’d learn every weird ass Yoga position
Jumping dog, swimming fish
Whatever they call that shit
I’d let it rip in a hot steamy room
Just to check out the contours of your ass
In them yoga pants

I’ve got a half chub at the Starbucks
Waiting on my daily white chocolate mocha
I say I want the “big one”
Cause I never learned their fancy words for large
Until I got all venti in my drawers
Thinking bout them Yoga pants

I imagine you wear them
While grabbing your mail
I’d peep your booty as you lean on one leg
And stretch out grabbing the bills from your mailbox
I’d rent the house across the street and ogle you from the window
I get stiff
On account of those Yoga pants

They look painted on.
  Your ass gives me hope
You like a magic marker
Only sexy
And 30 times more likely
To get me hard

In my head I say, “Yoga pants, how about a lap dance?”
You blush and oblige me
You say come inside me
I do
We have special needs kids
I lose my job at the meat factory
You cheat on me
With my brother Larry
Our children grow to hate us
We hate each other
I break a dinner plate
You file for divorce, you take the house
The kids blame me
I relapse on cocaine
I’m in diapers as a grown ass man
I don’t know who I am
My broken family comes to see me on my death bed
They ask me for my dying words
 I mutter jibberish, they inch closer
“Dad, what’s that you said?”
“Fuck you, Yoga pants”