Ode to my Jeans

An ode to my holey jeans.

Blue jeans, ev'ryday—that's what I wear,
Regardless of their condition, of their wear and tear.
Jeans are tough
From belt-loop to cuff,
Yet somehow holes get everywhere:
 
A hole in th' knee, next a stain of grass;
There's even a hole 'round back, in the—ahem, back pocket.
They're supposedly tough,
Yet frayed at the cuff,
And I oft' lose the change from my pocket.
 
But all is well:
There's no blue-jean Hell
Where tattered pants go t' pay penance;
Because, you know,
Jeans never get old—
They simply get more experience.