Underwear Man

This has nothing to do with the usual blog topics of vegetables, little kids and ponies. Also, it's creepy. I don't know why my brain is working this way, but I have felt compelled to write a poem about this guy since my friend told me about him. See, my friend works in a consignment shop and one Sunday muttered that it wasn't her favorite day of the week because of Underwear Man. Apparently that's the only day she works there alone, and this creepy old guy comes in then and feels and sniffs ladies' undies. Large ones. They're not even used, but that doesn't stop him. I'm not a proper poet, so cut me some slack if you comment.

Underwear Man

Sunday's the day it's just me at the store

I show up on time and unlock the door

to open the register, sort the dresses and scan

size 40 panties for the Underwear Man.

They're not for his wife, nor his lady friend

Too many sizes for one girl's rear end

Fabric blends are his favorite, but pure cotton will do

If they're over size 30, peach, pink or blue

Underwear Man go away
The elastical waistbands are starting to fray

Put the polyester blends back on the shelf
Keep your creepy old hands to yourself

Sunday's the day I see the old fellow

Thumb and forefinger fondling yellow

satin, size 40 briefs so I must scan

Bigger the better, thinks Underwear Man.

Underwear Man go away
The elastical waistbands are starting to fray

Put the polyester blends back on the shelf
Keep your creepy old hands to yourself