Our gilded cage, sage,
That often doubles as a stage?
We often talk stage-rot.
I'd smooth those wrinkles with mine youthful hand,
Kiss away the cancer, steer us to land.
Away from a sea of seething plot.
You do speak, sage,
In decrepit adage.
Brandishing words-spells much like a mage.
My part, for my part, is to appear overwrought.
My serpent's tooth, thanks, is rather blessed.
Why ever not? I've learnt from the best.
We play each other, (but never really play each other)
And a denouement is begot.
I love this, our play, king,
It has it all-everything.
More so with a flaggon of beer king:
passion, Passion and fear, king.
Fear of Us, as you leer king.
Leer after day after leer, king.
The spotlight's yours- spew your curses.
My mind will think of curtains and patron's purses.
Notice, as the smoke disperses,
That there is applause- a whole lot.
My monologue's here! I must be glad.
Pray God, let me not be mad!
I'll sputter, I'll manage
To have as little of the carnage
That falls, rightfully, in your lot.
I know there are those who want to see
Us play out this savaging comedy.
I shall play distraught- I promise,
For as long as you need me.
