(Apologies to Christina G. Rossetti)
MY part is like a rigmarole
That makes me want the author shoot;
My part is like a monkey tree
Whose boughs are innocent of fruit.
My part is like a cigarette
That dwindles down to filthy ash;
My part is worser than all these
Because the play is really trash.
Raise me a dais of timber up,
Hang it with velvet of deep dyes,
Serve it with props and scenery,
To satisfy the hundred eyes.
Work how you will you cannot hope
To give this drama any life.
‘Tis dull in sense in small in scope –
‘Twas picked by old Pop Austin’s wife!