Death of a Play-Write
A cold crypt lay stone figured in the earth, as if it were the old man's reward.
Dark and bewildered the eyes of the beast, rested six feet on tranquil depths.
Shallow and without remorse, engulfed by the undertakers grit.
What death awaits under the devil's window sill.
Monotonous the cheer, hurray!!! hurray!!!!, an audienca, dethroned was the king, his
assassination by critic, no prize for his next of kin
No sorrow, only tears of a dream failed by others,
Who are we not to call his work art...left with an evil grin and the scent of gasoline
spread, burn was his words,as he fell silent in the flames
As the curtains rolled, applause lauded out, a true genius, a master of a play.
As it was in name death of a play-write,
and the end of his script
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