ACT 3

This is not the role I auditioned for.
Not this broken man wandering through the scenery
Voice cracking, eyes bloody from lack of sleep,
Fumbling for my lines, frightened, desperate
For the phone to ring off stage with news that the farm has been saved.
That Richard III is dead at last
That Blanche duBois is being looked after.
What perfidious director cast me in this grim comedy ?
Despised by critics as a nauseating wallow in self-pity
Shunned by audiences who hate plays where nothing happens.
I beg you like the pitiful dog I am to
Bring the curtain mercifully down.

John Weil /Poverty Pudding/The Poet Corral