What’s reality you ask? Well my friends it’s a fucking play.
So please, I know you’ve been waiting in skeptical dismay,
for an opportunity, a chance, to murder your day
witnessing the hollow plights of forsaken hacks,
that make you cringe as they wallow in filth on their backs.
A filth that stews here, right here on our stage,
smoking and swaying in its chemical rage,
mixed with the dying dreams of us cognizant hacks,
that don’t even have the time to lay or relax.
Oh, we live here, right here in this wonderful place.
here on the stage, next to her and this beautiful face.
It’s tattered and haunting, yes, but please, do not stare,
for her daunting performance is surprisingly rare.
But I fear I must tell you something, something quite sincere,
please, my friends, would you like to hear?
If so, I insist, you must have a seat.
I imagine you’ll discover you’re in for a treat.
Now despite our reputation, I’m sure that you’ll find,
we have lost quite a bit to this theatrical grind.
We have no scribes to document our bewildering past,
no looming lantern to guide our misled cast,
no fleeting thespians following a chemical path,
for a mere second of the director’s colorful wrath.
And now, I regret to inform you with this plastic grin,
that our budget is running dangerously thin,
its waistline doubting itself, it sheepishly moans,
rags hanging like calendars from its brittle bones.
The reviews are horrible, every god damn day,
but we’re forced to continue with this harrowing display,
of false emotion and inevitable decay.
And without further stalling or sorrowful delay
I urge you, ladies and gentlemen, to enjoy the fucking play.