Press Night

The show must go on
As if pain were so much motley
Your costume for the close of Act One
Calls for something jolly

The lighting grid that follows closely
Every tiny truth
Is signalling for sequence two
So hit your marker, move!

No tears may fall upon your cheek
For make-up will no secrets keep
And running down your chin to seep
Through dry-clean-only, borrowed, cheap

Steal hope for critic’s mild misgivings
Drowning in depressing clippings
Uglified by wig and ribbons
Pantomime with all the trimmings

Make dumb show and mime for laughs
How things are fine – they’ve rung the half
Don’t let us down, we’ve paid to see
Up close, what’s not reality

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