Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder but are you looking in the right place?

Felix's bulging eyes, bugged,
(e'en mosquitoes flew by)
avoiding his weird eyes.
He had breath of a goat,
whiskers of wire bristle
(but, oh, how he whistled)
and feet sized like a boat.

Upon his chest he lugged
a brassiere meant to hide
jolly bosoms . . . in stride.
Hair on his head stood up,
fell down when he would eat
and danced upon his seat.
(At least he wore 'he cups.)

Felix flexed his cheeks. Dragged
on the floor they flipped, flopped;
'twould sweep when'er he stopped.
So hirsute they were used
on the floor as a mop.
On his hind he would plop
until both his cheeks popped.

His brain swelled, n'er snagged,
making him quite wealthy.
Gals followed him steathly . . .
none cared much for his looks.
They smelled dollars, money;
Felix thought them funny . . .
trying to catch with words, hooks.

Not a thing 'bout him changed;
greed grows, thrives everywhere.
Trust? Felix didn't dare.
He gave to the poor folks
who supped at his table.
Only they were able
to look at him without jokes.

Sometimes folks are opened
from a 'box' . . . beautiful;
innards empty, n'er full.
Feast your eyes on the soul
and forget the 'package'
(it's simply baggage).
Look for loves' gleaming glow.