I felt like I was laying on a bed of pointed pins.
They dug in my thighs, my arms, my shoulders.
Why was this happening, repayment for my sins?
I couldn't get up, my legs felt like boulders.
My clothes, my clothes, that's it!
I changed into some old jean shorts.
It made it worse, I have to admit.
So I changed into the clothes they use on basketball courts.
It wouldn't stop, so I made a scene.
I cried for it to go away.
It felt like I forgot to wear green,
on this year's St. Patrick's day.
Maybe I can wash it out.
I showered, and showered, and showered.
In my distress, I wanted to pout.
In this battle, the fiberglass towered.
I finally changed into a loose dress.
My clothes wouldn't rub against my skin.
After awhile, I felt like a mess.
At least this would stop it rubbing it in.
It seemed to slow, but not quite stop.
At least it wasn't as bad as before.
At least it wasn't over the top.
At least-- Oh wait, did I mention Fiberglass is a metaphor?