This is my first attempt at a serious poem and I felt I must explore the theatre and its ghosts.
The sound dies...
The cheers stop...
The finish of the cries...
The curtains chop...
The Theatre, my dear, is a poisoned chalice
Created for profit and sodomised malice
The intentions meant are an entire mess
Nothing more, nothing less
The Theatre, my dear, is full of characters
Brecht, Artaud and Shakespearean actors
Those wonderful chaps whom give us the pleasure
From Hamlet, Macbeth to Measure for Measure
The lights fade...
The audience gone...
The staff paid...
'Over is the con...
One dried-up Actor remains and makes His entrance
His eyes are glazed, fixed and old
A booming voice lifts up the room
Richard the Third's soliloquy booms
"Since I cannot prove a lover, I am determin'd to prove a villian"
The End approaches, my dear.
The last Curtain Call...