Poet Authority Poem Terminal

Stan wore his jeans.
In the height of a heatwave!
The denim hooked to his moisten legs.
When he sat down they tore his kneecaps off.

He rolled up his trousers.
Couldn't believe he didn't think of this sooner, it was like a pair of shorts!
His shins felt glacial.
Hairs froze and began to snap off in the high winds.
He shivered and wished he came up with this idea during the summer.

He loved to remain mysterious.
Which explained the balaclava.

A naked woman sat on a picnic blanket or something.
The men with her were not naked which seemed a bit strange.
But women look better naked anyway so it wasn't too much of a big deal.
The grapes and pastries had gone everywhere.