“I had lied so much lately that I was honestly surprised my pants weren't literally made of fire.”

“I almost shat my pants. Literally, the floor was almost covered in my shat.”

“I was leaving nothing to chance, and literally refused to be caught unarmed with my pants down.”

“Liar, liar. My pants are so on fire. And so is the rest of me.”

“Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you. And see, you were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made. You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you, though if they did not have their existence in you, they had no existence at all. You called and cried out loud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.”

“Cause I lit him on fire,” I shrugged and brushed dust from my pants.”