Sing, Muse, in the old whimwham before terza rima. Holler
Thy wine-dark dithyramb, Rose-Fingered Dawn, and so on;
How goes it? Whence and then some,
Until the actor shouted to an unseen stagehand: drop the curtain,
Man, bring up the lights. All right, all right. Flagrant Delicto
Followed by Scene-Cut-Shorto. Caught
In the act, as I said. Depicto, Restricto, Act One El Strippo
As a matter of fact. Underwear nubbins intact, knit sweater
Of red, brown and blue, intimate halloo from
Land of white panties, land granting favors, savory
Pie you can add to the list of things to serve when
I'm dead. Not for ages yet, so keep your eyes wet without
O'erspilling; no swilling the wine of old emotions. Seven oceans
Keep us apart, the whole love-you-till-death-do-us-part, that
Vow. The honor and obey show, very dog and pony
You know, but are you sure he's
The one? At night, is it singing you're full of
Or sighing? Fake frying in the stage kitchen; faux egg scramble.
Nothing by halves, said the director. Olde
Marseilles in the diaphragm. Project, project!
Sorry Ma'am, no gas allowed onstage, therefore naught
Aflame. Thus needs pretend heat, same with the greasy salve
When he burns his back and acts as if his skin were tender.
Blame the melodrama, his acclaim, the actor's good-looking, bald-headed,
Buttock-y fame. Sing, Muse, of the thread
Unraveled, of a wine-dark man in spendy seats who clasped
His burst chest. His last look on this life
His best; dying as the play begins, choking over new love trickling
Up, chorus clearly forced into ten-minute remission.
To err, to die, is human, ad hoc Sampson,
Albeit flagrant delicto. Exit stage left with small percentage of audience
Dead and the first act nearly over.