Lord of the Pants...

[ElenCala Isil]

Well, why not?

There is an inn, a merry-old inn
Beneath an old grey hill,
And there they sew a seam so fine
That the man in the moon himself found time
To come and get his pants hemmed.

The ostler has some tipsy pants
Spawned from a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he runs in those pants,
Now climbing high, or down with ants,
Now walking in the middle.

The landlord keeps his little skirt
He ought be mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good pants among the guests,
He turns a pleat to all the jests
And gags until he chokes.

They also keep a bunch of shorts
They’re fit for any queen;
But trousers turn her head like ale,
And make her wave her braided tail,
In hope those pants will be green.

And O! the rows of silver needles
And the store of silver spools!
For Slacks there is a special pair,
And these they must thread up with care
On Saturday afternoons.

The Man in the Moon had pockets run deep,
And his pants began to wail;
A needle and spool on the table danced,
The shorts in the garden madly pranced,
And the little skirt chased his tail.

The Man in the Moon took another pair,
And then rolled beneath his pants;
And there he dozed and dreamed of pants,
Till in the pants the stars were pale,
And pants were in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy pants:
'The white pants of the Moon,
They wrinkle and tear into silver bits;
But their master's been and pantsed his wits,
And the Slacks’ll be rising soon!'

So the pants spawned from fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
A jig that would wake the thread:
He threaded and hemmed and quickened the tune,
While the seamstress shook the Man in the Moon:
'Here are your pants!' she said.

They pantsed the Man slowly up the hill,
And bundled his pants into the Moon,
While fine threads galloped up in rear,
Of those pants that were like to fit a deer,
And a needle ran up with the spool.

Now quicker the needle went deedle-dum-diddle,
The pants began to roar,
The shorts and the trousers stood on their pants;
The guests all bounded from their pants,
And danced upon the floor.

With a ping and a pong the fine thread broke!
The pants jumped over the Moon,
And the little skirt laughed to see such pants,
And the Saturday needle went off at a run
With the silver Sunday spool.

The round Moon rolled behind his pants,
As the Slacks, they raised their legs.
They hardly believed their fiery seams;
For though it was day, to them it seemed
They all forgot their pants!