Old Marisand’s a not-so-funny zinger;
he’s clothed not by design but by disaster.
The memory, like chocolate olives, lingers:
a velvet vested, sparkling, striped ringmaster.
His golden waistcoat makes you feel humbled.
Heroically, it keeps his paunch from bouncing.
His coiled stance completes the whole ensemble
he’s big but not too heavyset for pouncing.
His trousers’ pattern is a shocking stripe
and into them his bulky frame is smashed.
Their cut is so discouragingly tight
that you can see he likes his taters mashed.
He tries the dignified triumvirate:
a velvet vest, a waistcoat, spotless dickey.
The fabric’s fine but he is still a pirate.
It’s yet one more example of his trickery.
His head, where perched atop this mess sartorial,
conveys his fashion statement’s punctuation.
His thinning hair of branching lengths arboreal
is like a row of pointed exclamation.
And, colored auburn more than yellow flax,
baroquely swooping unabashed curls,
and fixed in place by Gristle ‘n’ Thistle wax,
his mustache like a question mark is swirled.
Expensive stuff, this wax from Gristle ‘n’ Thistle,
and quality is claimed about the brand.
It gives that extra “twistle” to your bristle
but don’t apply it by five-gallon can!
From Marisand it’s sleight of hand, an act.
Your hand he’ll shake, his conman’s grip enthrall it.
His line of patter’s conjured to distract
(his other hand is reaching for your wallet).