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.