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
Copyright © David Brown | Year Posted 2014
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