When the Magnavox was ailing, or the Zenith blew a tube,
You couldn’t trust your TV set to any backwoods rube;
You’d load the thing into the car and drive a three mile hop
To William Henry Kitteridge’s television shop.
No Westinghouse or Admiral could baffle good old Bill;
He’d troubleshoot a chassis with the ultimate of skill.
Short-circuited transformers or a misadjusted yoke,
To Bill were just the TV god’s conception of a joke.
In a shop that smelled of ozone, Bill could make the solder flow
Till a Motorola’s innards would assume a ruddy glow;
Then the picture tube would flicker, and the speaker come to life
With the voice of Henny Youngman telling jokes about his wife.
Today’s TV’s are pancake thin, and come from Asian lands,
With microchips too intricate for Billy’s calloused hands;
Don’t look for Billy in his shop, he’s permanently out,
And Up There on some riverbank, a-casting for a trout.