Poem: A Night at the Opera

marx

A joyous night at the opera

Can be a perilous thing,

The performance might be glamorous,

But backstage is another thing

*

The tenor has a sore throat,

Soon to become oesophageal cancer,

And the mezzo-soprano has just lost a leg –

Good thing she’s not a dancer!

*

The backstage-crew are all well-to-do,

And often puff with pride:

“We only help you actors out

From a sense of noblesse oblige!”

The basso profundo is profound indeed,

He can scarcely move from his chair,

And if you think you’ve seen a mountain range –

It’s just his derriere!

*

The piano accompanist has a glass eye,

And it often goes a-roving;

A shrill F# sent it down the aisle –

Towards Hereford it was last seen moving

*

The conductor – he’s another matter together,

You should hear him scream and shout!

But after the show, he likes a pint glass or two,

To reinforce his gout

*

And don’t get me started on the chorus,

On our reputation they are a blot,

Most of them can’t remember the words –

I think they should all be shot!

*

And so you see, it’s all just an act,

As we dance in gleeful rage,

For we all return to weeping and moping,

As soon as we’re off the stage

*

And though half our members are close to death,

The fat women will not stop singing,

Decapitate your own head if you like –

Your ears will still be ringing

*

What a splendid night at the opera,

Though the altos went on ad nauseum,

And the stage manager had to be twice disinterred

From his grandmother’s mausoleum

*

For he’s a secretly a vampire,

But don’t let the audience know,

He might be inclined to drink their blood,

But he’s easy going as stage managers go

*

Still, we do it, year after year,

Out of perseverance and love,

And I hope you’ll forgive me if you see yourself

In any of those above

*

But on and on the show must go,

Please tell me you’ve brought some liquor?

And fervently pray to the god of your choice

That the bass’s arse won’t grow any thicker!

*

 

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