There is a lot to be said for silliness - most of it pretty silly. Today's journal entry doesn't pretend to be anything other than completely silly. The subject is "pants". You have been warned.

Pantomime (Pants Ex Machina)

Folks, spare a thought for vain, young Lance,
(with teenage dreams of wild romance)
as he invests in underpants
to buoy his frail ego.

He eye's shop mannequins askance,
and wonders if penile implants
could boost his trousers' occupants
and stud-status bestow.

Those y-fronts smack of tight finance --
of childhood spent with grim, cheap aunts.
They'd surely stymie his advance
on love's presidio.

The tight butt-hugging jockette pants
in titillating circumstance
could bode a stressful comeuppance,
constraining his blood flow.

The silken boxers draw his glance.
He wonders if he'll take the chance
that cute, pink panthers may enhance
his luckless libido.

Observing the superior stance
and mirthful smirks of assistants
who guard the changing-room entrance,
a fitting he'll forego.

Once home he dons his new-bought pants
and, for the mirror, twirls a dance.
But, *gasp* what's that? A huge expanse
of butt-crack left on show!

He rips them off. He yells. He rants.
He huffs and puffs and snorts and pants,
grabs bag and docket...
then recants --
no one need ever know.

He locks the door, then Lance decants
the mystic blood. He murmurs chants
to his fell lord -- the one who grants
him favours here below.

Now we his viewers, rapt in trance,
look on his rite as from a pantheon
of gods whose supplicants
like ants run to and fro.

We hear his prayer. The change is slow.
The silk pink panthers start to glow.
Lance, trembling, tugs them on...
but whoa!
They won't come off again. Oh no!
His voice is strange; he's grown a mo --
we've turned him into Jacques Clouseau!