We sold our butts for pocket change and danced across the stage
The sponsors puppet marionettes performers in a cage
And to survive we prostituted talent skill and craft
To earn enough to live on we became one of the daft

Who strut around as peacocks while the masses scoff and sneer
If only there could be a way to let the jealous near
And do themselves what standing back as critics they deplore
As commentators on a game who call the shots before

The race begins for no one wins and no one gets a score
The spectacle is bought and sold so many times before
And each new act becomes the same with different lines and tales
The story though repeats itself as weighed upon the scales

Each night at curtain call expectant hearts a flutter
As variety demands an act we gaze out through the shutter
And wonder if tonight will bring a freshness to the play
Or puppets on a string will dance the same as every day.

As gladiators to the ring we're tossed as lions bait
As know-alls searching for a fault sit back and lie in wait
For misplaced cues and stumbled lines, amuse us now , they drool
We'll be the educated ones and you can play the fool

And so mistakes we make again to keep them in their place
How far superior they must feel what pleasure to their face
And shout aloud as errors fall, if briefly or just one
To see a stumbling artist's perfect practice come undone

The aftermath with bleeding hearts the actors all retire
To lick their wounds and bandage tunes that next time will aspire
To placitate the howling throng if time would be so kind
To bring them back to boast again performance realigned

But meanwhile we become the crowd and take a front row chair
And curse the audience mistakes we all picked up out there
With tearing satisfaction we assess the nights response
And play the part of critics, pride repaired for just this once.
 

Ian Kerridge Nov 1995               back to Poetry Index