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
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witnessing the hollow plights of forsaken hacks,
that make you cringe as they wallow in filth on their backs.
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A filth that stews here, right here on our stage,
smoking and swaying in its chemical rage,
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mixed with the dying dreams of us cognizant hacks,
that don’t even have the time to lay or relax.
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Oh, we live here, right here in this wonderful place.
here on the stage, next to her and this beautiful face.
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It’s tattered and haunting, yes, but please, do not stare,
for her daunting performance is surprisingly rare.
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But I fear I must tell you something, something quite sincere,
please, my friends, would you like to hear?
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If so, I insist, you must have a seat.
I imagine you’ll discover you’re in for a treat.
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Now despite our reputation, I’m sure that you’ll find,
we have lost quite a bit to this theatrical grind.
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We have no scribes to document our bewildering past,
no looming lantern to guide our misled cast,
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no fleeting thespians following a chemical path,
for a mere second of the director’s colorful wrath.
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And now, I regret to inform you with this plastic grin,
that our budget is running dangerously thin,
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its waistline doubting itself, it sheepishly moans,
rags hanging like calendars from its brittle bones.
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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.
