The Pants of the Troll, a cautionary tale
Troll sat alone wearing pants of stone
He became aware of a tear where his seat was sewn
That's a bit of a shock when your pants are rock
You shouldn't have to mend 'em
Rend 'em! Bend 'em!
He had no tacks to mend his slacks
Nor anywhere to send 'em
Up came Tom with his blue pants on
Said he to Troll "Pray, what's going on?
For it looks your jeans are parting at the seams
And that the damage might be recent."
He sent! We sent!
"You better get some grout before your bottom falls out
And you are arrested for exposure indecent!"
Said Troll to the Man, "Help me if you can,
Before my dungerees are reduced to sand
And my hiney shows. I have no other clothes
Except a woolen kilt that itches."
"This is the last time I spend a dime
Buying after-market britches!"
Said Tom to Troll, "O bless my soul!
I have no skill to mend this hole.
My cousin Jason is a rather good mason
He can reconstruct your back seat"
Whack seat! Lack seat!
"In the bushes hide to preserve your pride
While he fills your pants with concrete!"
So Troll, he steps behind a tree
To try to save his modesty
"Please hurry back, for I'm feeling the lack!"
Said he, handing Tom his trousers
"I'm trusting that you to make them new;
That's my only pair of trousers!"
"Yes!" Tom said, and away he sped
but once far away laughed off his head
Without a glance he threw away Troll's pants
And went on his merry way
He did not fear that Troll would hear
nor come after him someday
Years went past and still Tom laughed
When he thought about his wiley craft
How he tricked a Troll and his pants stole
He'd tell anyone who'd listen
From moor to coast, he'd often boast
To anyone who'd listen
So it was no surprise when Tom was advised
that an angry Troll of surpassing size
Was looking for him, his expression grim
Wearing pants made out of a bush!
A push! A whoosh!
Tom ran away, but Troll caught him the next day
And spanked him on the tush!
Sing now, ye people of the tailors of Arnor,
for the pants of Sauron are rended for ever,
and the Dark Zipper is pulled down.
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tailor of Guard,
for your seam-ripping hath not been in vain,
and the Black Pants are rended,
and your King hath giv'n Sauron a wedgie,
though he is yet clothed.
Sing and be glad, all ye tailors of the West,
for your King shall wear pants,
and he shall keep you stitching
all the days of your life.
And the Suspenders that were withered shall be renewed,
and he shall hoist them to the high places,
for their elastic shall be blessed.
Sing all ye tailors!
Cold be knees and hips and bones
and cold it be to sit on stone
when pants are damp from mist and rain
I shiver and teeth chatter once again.
No dry pants in my pack have I
The pack is soaked, no pants are dry
To a warm inn at last we come
And dry warm pants will toast my bum.
"G-Strings for the elven kings, under their mini-skirts.
Boxers for the dwarf lords beneath their levi jeans.
Grotty breifs for mortal men, doomed to be without laundry,
Bikini bottoms for the dark lord on his dark throne.
One pair of pants to rule them all,
One pair to find them,
One pair to bring them all,
And Sauron's backside shall mind them."
Sing hey! for the wash on laundry day
that washes the mud from my pants away
Hot water, soap my jeans will clean
and round the tub shall make a ring.
Oh sweet the washboard sound to hear
of pants being scrubbed, too hard, I fear
The stains are gone, and too the pants
And so I hide behind the plants.
I stitch and sew a patch with care
to hide the hole, my bottom bares.
"My jeans are healed," with pride, I said
And show my pants' new patch of red.
Ah! Like flags fall the pants in the wind
Long pants beltless like the drawers of kids.
The pants are creeping like the silky knickers of cotton, such as we
wore beneath the blue jeans of the West, lest we tremble in the icy
wind of November.
Who now will lend me their suspenders?
For Vardenim, queen of the Cordoroy, has uplifted her arms and
foreshortened her pantlegs, showing all the lads her ankles, and now
all the guys are blushing and giggling, and she is embarassed.
Now lost, lost is the button on the waistband and we have no safety pins.
Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find stretchpants. Maybe even thou shall fit inside them. Farewell!