The Good Lord's Work

A kilt wearing Irishman
Gulped a swig of Guinness
While he sat next to me

In an Irish pub nearby.

"Would ye be knowing," he said,

" 'tis not healthy

For a man to wear pants."
He took another swig
Of his dark brown Guinness.

"And squish those precious jewels

That God gave him?"

I wanted to reply,
But I didn't know what to say.

He dismounted his barstool

Put his hands on his hips

And jutted his chin
To make his point.
"The good Lord, didn't make 'em

To swing

In a hanging basket

So ye could wrap 'em

In tight suffocating pants."

I threw my hands up.
"What am I supposed to do.
I can't run around naked."

He held his big belly

And laughed with a sneer.

"Would ye be knowing

Where to buy you a fine kilt

In this here town?
If ye do,
Buy one.
And don't insult the good Lord's work
By stuffing yer jewels

In ball squshing panties."

I wear my kilt from time to time,

And I don't wear panties

When wearing it.
I wouldn't want to insult

The good Lord's work.