"Two Nights Before Hobowl"

‘Twas two nights before Hobowl and all through the V,
Every soul in attendance was in AARP.
The only drink served, was Old Style in a glass,
Or a brandy old-fashioned if politely you’d ask.

There’s popcorn and peanuts on the bar if you want ‘em,
And a pull-tab machine if you’ve a gambling problem.
And Pete in his kromer, and I with cigar,
Had just settled down for a drink at the bar.

When in through the door, there arose such a racket,
Of ladies and gents, not quite in our age bracket.
Into the tray I discarded some ash,
Turned in my barstool and saw some white trash.

The neon signs shining through the air, full of smoke,
Made me think what I saw was a practical joke.
When, even my wondering eyes with no glasses,
Could see the young men were all sporting mustaches.

Their appearance was sloppy, their speech slurry and slow.
I knew in a moment it must be HOBO.
They paraded their ‘staches, as plucky as proud,
Then whistled and hollered and shouted out loud.

“Now Bobbo! Now Vatto! Now Gregas and Show!
On Jizzy! On JJ! On Giant and Jones!
To the front of the bar! For a beer, big and tall!
Now drink away! Drink away! Drink away all!”

The register rang out a chorus of bells,
While money was spent as fast as brain cells.
They toasted and toasted and toasted again,
As beer after shot after drink they did drain.

With suds in each ‘stache and a grin on each face,
The mustachioed men each lined up in place.
So that the onlookers could stand and take note,
Of their favorite mustache and give it their vote.

Each mustache was different, each mustache unique.
(Which is what makes a mustache so tough to critique)
And each judge was stringent on how they would rate,
A mustache that's weak and a mustache that's great.

After inspection they marked on their ballot,
The top three mustaches that paired with their palatte.
They cast in their entries, in knowledge that they’ll,
Determine which champion ‘stache will prevail.

The votes were then counted, the bar was a hush,
The anticipation seemed simply too much.
Which HOBO would triumph? Which man would be king?
Whose pilose-lipped praises would posterity sing?

The climax was upon us, the was moment was here,
They named the new champ and the crowd gave a cheer!
The winner promoted his prizewinning pelt,
And walked up to the bar to pick up his belt.

Six foot two inches tall, mustache three miles wide,
With a curl at each end, it could not be denied,
That this one was special, it had style and panache.
Pete whispered in awe, “That’s one helluva ‘stache!”

He stood right beside me, with mustache, divine,
And then in an instant his eye quickly caught mine.
He winked and he smiled and gave me this tip,
“You’re always a winner, if there’s hair on your lip.”