An Ode to Improv Pants

Once a month, I find myself at Titanic—

seated in McTrib, admiring the audience of uncles and aunts.

I do my best, stay relaxed, avoid panic,

but soon am distracted by everyone’s improv pants.

Where art thou kept, o’ pants of camos and stripes?

It seems to me thou art reserved for one single night.

I muse, ‘others must notice these leg-born stereotypes,

surely, this cannot be solely my plight.’

There must be a store for pants of this ilk.

Does there exist an “improv pants” warehouse

filled with trousers of plaid and of silk?

My unstylish legwear makes me feel the louse.  

My final conclusion: the groups must deliberate and ration

to decide who wears improv pants highest of fashion.