I declared to myself, Self, You're out of your mind
If you think that a dame of the rich widow kind
Would check out your style and get all come hithery.
You need more pizazz and less live-and-let-livery.
So I took my own counsel and searched far and wide
For a debonair fellow to serve as my guide.
I chose William Powell from '33/'34
(Though my years surpassed his by nearly a score).
I would remake myself as the next Philo Vance,
And no longer resemble an aging salesclerk at Macy's selling corduroy pants.
I envied the sonorous Powell baritone.
My voice? Part carnival barker and part saxophone.
As my audible was risible,
I turned to my visible.
I pomaded my hair and got a fedora.
But my upper lip needed pencil-thin flora.
To work straight I went and produced a nice stubble,
But the 'stache that soon sprouted was just miserubble –
Sparse, prickly, off-white – like crushed Shredded Wheat.
I reached for the razor; it was time to delete.
Well, I've thrown in the towel.
I'm no William Powell.
And if rich widows won't look at me twice,
Let poor ones suffice.