They swing, they sway, like a naughty parade,
Slappin' thighs when the debts get paid.
Two round legends in a wrinkled sack,
Been through more sweat than a quarterback.

Stick to the thighs on a humid day,
Still hang proud in the heat of play.
They’ve been teabagged, tugged, and gently slapped,
Caught in zippers — still they adapt.

Left one's lazy, right one’s bold,
One hangs high, the other cold.
They know no shame, no dress code rules,
Dippin' low like they run the tools.