These pants.

More avant-garde poetry brought to you by a machine translation system that is still learning the ropes:

I put my son on my son,
no. 6,
and he scratched herself,
thought it was all about this pants,
I thought that it comes from these pants.
I am still sending a picture of these pants,
I am still sending pictures of these pants,
I am still sending pictures of these pants,
I still send photos of them.
Maybe the pants came from the pants.

(This output is dramatically different from the source, which was longer and didn’t mention pants or pictures nearly this much. Poor grammar/punctuation in source probably threw the machine into a panic.)