He used to send onlookers wild
When doing his impressions;
Was known to smash a gross of plates
During his late night sessions.
He did not like the audience;
He hated every second.
He used to cry himself to sleep
As fame and money beckoned.
His routines dated far too fast;
His jokes fell over the edge.
Washed up and tight, he would be found
Underneath a neighbour’s hedge.
Now bedded down in rented rooms,
Half the night he walks the streets.
He turns his head and looks away
From passers-by that he meets.
Long since has the curtain come down;
The laughter has turned to chill.
The silence dares not speak its name;
The critics prepare the kill.