my glove ain't your glove, your glove ain't my glove

it would take an eternity to break us up.
as a teen, i took every opportunity to ostracize myself from my classmates by trying to emulate my idol, frank sinatra. so when the winter winds tore through my humble, northern virginia enclave one year, i headed over to the mall to get some classy gloves. sinatra wears classy gloves, right? right.
and what did i find? god's gift to a pair of chapped, poorly circulating hands. rich, supple black leather on the outside. soft, welcoming white rabbit fur on the inside. and as durable my healthy, strong teeth.
everybody wants them. but ain't nobody gonna get them. because i love my gloves more than my own mother.