He was the only guy I met Who wore a genuine fedora And for all he struck a figure He turned out to be a horror. He was Satan with a swagger A thin cheroot hanging in his lip. He got into every nightclub free I never saw him leave a tip.
His voice was like his words, Smooth and slick and few. When he talked everyone listened. It seemed the proper thing to do. But later when you remembered It seemed he didn’t say much at all. You just remembered his affect His posture and that he was tall.
I don’t mean to imply he was a loner; He had his choice of friendly fare. And, it seemed the were both genders So, there were lots of us out there. We entertained, or at least we tried, Just to keep him where we were. And throughout the evening’s fun Competition is what we all were.
So, we flirted and we flattered him And we kept his cigarettes well lit. Once in a while one of the silliest Of our sycophantic group threw a fit. Most of the time we stuck to our goal; Some girl went nuts we’d ignore her. For some mad reason all we thought Was to please the man in the fedora.
I never heard anyone talk of him And mention his accent or race. In fact nobody seemed to be able To remember aspects of his face. And he never seemed to walk away He just faded back into the flora. He was like a will-of-the-wisp; A Flying Dutchman in a fedora.