Kelly had pluck.

Astaire was like an earl

gay fortune's pauper puttin' on the Ritz.
Though not to every taste. My married girl
took elegance in stride. During the Blitz
we rarely missed the Sunday matinees.
Her man of war shipped-out, she felt empowered
to pine for Gene. I trolled the Strand's cafes
togged-out, a right old toff. Once Fred was our
ideal--we older men. Noblesse oblige
put Ginger first. While Kelly charged the air.
A noncombatant through the Nazi siege,
post-war, he'd paint le Marais red. Unfair?
By turns we squired a brave lieutenants wife.
Outfoxed, he bought the beachhead of our strife.
From Serpentrope by Norman Ball