Until The Curtain
We talk about the actor's life
In terms we can't make harsh enough.
Dilate upon its petty strife
It's woe and worry, blague and bluff;
We speak of its uncertain wage
From long experience we cry
"What fools we were to choose the Stage,"
But we don't quit it till we die!
At one night stands we roundly rave
At dressing rooms, at poor hotels,
Each one of us, we say, is slave
To managers; within us wells
Hot anger at a thousand things
Which set our temperaments awry.
Thus at the Stage we make our flings,
And never quit it till we die.
Oh, we look forward to the day
When, with a little laid aside,
We shall be done with every play
And have a home, and there abide;
But when we've bought a cosy shack
Where managers shall not come nigh,
Somehow the old Stage calls us back,
And we don't quit it till we die.
For all our talk, they're in our blood --
The scenes and flies the stage-hands shunt,
The magic of the calcium flood
The upturned faces out in front,
The everlasting game with chance
That makes the actor's heart beat high;
The Stage -- gripped by its strange romance.
We shall not quit it till we die!
NOTE: Special thanks to John Martin at http://www.alief.com/andmore
who provides this poem free of charge.