Classic Poem

I've looked at a lot of dramatic pieces —
I frequently sit in the second row
I've gazed at the tragedies that were Greece's,
And wept at Shakespearian tales of woe.
But when I fare to a modern show,
(Or when to a modern show I fare),
This is the thing that I want to know:
Who presses the clothes that the actors wear?

It may be a hero the villain fleeces,
It may be a villain as low as low,
It may be a tenor who sings his theses,
It may be a tar with a " Yo-heave-ho! "
But the Trevor trousers must hang just so,
And the Anson coats have a gorgeous flare.
Envy of them gives me vertigo.
Who presses the clothes that the actors wear?

They fall in the stiffest of sharpest creases,
The trousers worn by the actor-beau.
The slenders as well as the wide obeses
Have never a wrinkle from tip to toe.
But as though they'd been out in a month of snow
My pants appear as a wrinkled pair,
Though pressed by my tailor the ultimo.
Who presses the clothes that the actors wear?

L'ENVOI

Princes, your secret on me bestow:
Tell me the tailor, when and where:
I'd like to be a Lothario.
Who presses the clothes that the actors wear?