The Play, 3/2/2016, Deon Mumple
The play, to me, is not a smash success,
I can’t recite; I’m guessing all my lines,
At least the audience oft’ seems amused,
I hear them laugh at our speeches sometimes,
I thought it not intended comedy,
But now I hear, they’re all laughing at me.
I took the part, believed, “Heroic lead,”
As everyone prefers a love story.
Some people’s lines seem perfect, well rehearsed,
I only wish I could act half as well,
But my part in the play is “Joker, cursed,”
The wings of my stage fly straight into hell.
Who wrote this disaster? It’s not for me!
If I were God, this play were blasphemy!
The star, a woman! such a lovely face!
I strive with all my soul to win her heart,
But I fail at my lines, in pre-embrace,
And she, once again, pushes us apart.
The clown is a romantic fool, alas,
A fourth stooge, a sad Chaplin-esque loser,
No hope of love, no wine in clinking glass,
A cruel fate, that this heart should choose her
Am I hideous? Just a troglodyte?
I cry, and wish the play finally wrapped.
I wish the Writer were on stage to fight.
If I’m to be lonely, why am I trapped?
That lot has been chosen, that die is cast
One can’t retreat and change things in the past.
I feel embarrassed, my blush, not an act.
If I could hide somewhere under the stage…
If I could give her what she wants, exact…
She leaves my love, abandoned, in a cage.