Yeah, after I said I didn't know, I started to add things up: banker, Anthony, English accent. By George, I think I've got it!

Er, yes, Maryann, I'm just being cutesy about Hitchcock being a extra in his own movies.

Very clever, witty, and fun. My favorite so far.

I'm inclined to agree with Susan about the title and Sam about the meter, and I think I would have said "shades of blue and grades of gray" and "bespoke and yet unspoken for" - but aside from that, I have only appreciation for the poem and the wardrobe here.

Frank

Just to get the Villon quoted correctly since some wrong conclusions were being drawn because of a misquotation:
où sont les neiges d'antan?



Dites moi où, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora, la belle Romaine;
Archipiades, ni Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine;
Écho, parlant quand bruit on mène
Dessus rivière ou sus étang,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu'humaine?
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

Où est la très sage Héloïs,
Pour qui châtré fut et puis moine
Pierre Esbaillart à Saint Denis?
Pour son amour eut cette essoyne.
Semblablement où est la reine
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fut jeté en un sac en Seine?
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

La reine Blanche comme lys,
Qui chantait à voix de sirène,
Berthe au grand piéd, Bietris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jeanne la bonne Lorraine,
Qu'Anglais brulèrent à Rouen;
Où sont-ils, où, Vierge souv'raine?
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

Envoi

Prince, n'enquerrez de semaine
Où elles sont, ni de cet an,
Qu'à ce refrain ne vous ramène:
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

Humph.
I think it's pretty good, though.

Now that John has outed the various authors, let me express my thanks to all who commented on the poem - I tweak and revise incessantly, and the feedback is always helpful - and specifically to Lance for his helpful explanation of the nonsense title, and to Janet for replicating the Villon original. And of course, a particularly fawning and obsequious appreciation to all those who voted for me.

This is an old poem that i had essentially forgotten until I rediscovered it while looking for one to enter. Jerry Hartwig took it for his old Buckeye web anthology shortly after I workshopped it here, and when Jerry discontinued the web site the poem slipped out of my mind. I made some changes to the original - particularly the last quatrain - and sent it off to John.

Now that it's been up here, I want to make additional changes.

- as Roger notes, Casual Friday has given way to everyday, and I will change S3L7 to "and every day these days is Casual Day."

- I'm tempted to change S4L3 to "but know that when they throw me out they'll say"

Re the silly title - I know it's confusing as hell if you don't pick up on the Villon reference, but I'm in love with it. Not negotiable. Sorry, Susan.

Susan - I do agree with you about the refrain - I wish it had another foot - but don't have a good answer. Cutting everything to tet (as Sam suggested, and as Villon did) doesn't seem to work for me. And padding to add a foot - "But oh, where are the suits..." - feels like padding to add a foot.

Final comment - I encountered the same problem here with a degree of seriosity on the part of some readers that I almost always do with dramatic monologues on the Sphere, and it always surprises me. My intent was to treat the narrator with some affection (after all, I'm writing about myself), but basically the point of the poem is that he's a vain jerk, he's making clumsy passes at women and looking foolish at it, his dress and deportment are outdated, time has passed him by - and he sort of knows it, but doesn't appreciate it. But it's humor. Sure, it's laced with a little malice, but the narrator is basically a cartoon. Taking it seriously, or worrying about motives or office politics, is more than the poem deserves or intended.

Is there room in your N's closet for a friendly, clean, neighborly, overgloved cockroach who needs a vacation home, and who will never even go near the nighties? That's a promise.

- Spats