Long, Long Ago, In That Heroic Time When I, A Coy And Modest Youth, Was Shot Out On This Dust-Heap Of Careers And Crime To Try And Learn What's What, I Had A Servitor, A Swarthy Knave, Who Showed An Almost Irreligious Taste For Wearing Nothing But A Turban, Save A Rag About The Waist. This Apparition Gave Me Such A Start, That I Endowed Him With A Cast-Off Pair Of Inexpressibles, And Said, 'Depart, And Be No Longer Bare.' He Took The Offering With Broken Thanks; But Day Succeeded Day, And Still Revealed Those Sombre And Attenuated Shanks Intensely Unconcealed; Until At Last The Climax Came When I Resolved To Bring This Matter To An End, And When I Saw Him Passing, Shouted, 'Hi! Where Are Your Trousers, Friend?' Halting, He Gave A Deferential Bow; Then, To My Horror, Beamingly Replied, 'Master Not See? I Wearing Trousers Now!' I Would Have Said He Lied, But Could Not. As I Shaped The Glowing Phrase, I Looked Upon His Turban - Looked Again - Mine Own Familiar Pattern Met My Gaze, And All The Truth Was Plain! Th' Unhappy Creature, Eastern To The Core, Holding My Gift In Superstitious Dread, Had Made A Turban Out Of It, And Wore His Trousers - On His Head!