Life's But a Stage

Life's a cruel stage for the sensitive soul who must suffer in whole, the jeers and the babble of an ignorant rabble Who, paying their tuppence for cheap balcony seats, spew their bile, words so vile as to make a stone weep The reviews of the critics, far be them from smitten, are bloodily written, by these cynics leaking hate from their pens Then the papers are printed and sold by loud hawkers, to the gossiping gawkers for barely a farthing; a cheap nighttime's reading of our hero's disgrace But the wright of this tragedy, who's penned the production, such a clever seduction, is naught to be found He's hiding backstage, never facing the rage of this mob, that our poor yob now faces But there'll be no early close of this terrible flop, no, the pain will not stop and the follies will continue a morrow The backers will pay to continue the play for, as we all know, the show must go on So, the actors all heed this despicable creed to carry on the deplorable farce This drama shall replay one show, plus matinee every day for the rest of his life Think on this, dear patrons, while you're hissing and jeering, that the actor's one hope is that you, he'll be cheering Say you now, has he ever failed to bring you to tears? Or, perchance has his laughter never lifted your fears? Life's a cruel stage for the sensitive soul, he's paying the toll to be playing his role yes, this is our protagonist's fate