Ode To Chandler

On days when happiness was as rare as a fat postman
and you feel lower than a badgers belly,
and the hours crawl by like a sick cockroach

I met an old man who was as thin as a honest alibi and
and a face like a lost battle
and a voice that even whisky failed to improve

He asked me if i had seen this girl who
smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight
and whose voice was as cool as boarding-house soup
and who is almost as hard to get as a haircut.

I said No.