THE MOAN OF A THEATRE-MANAGER
Who gets, by hook or crook, from me
Admittance free, though well knows he
That myriads turned away will be?
The Deadhead.
Who, while he for his programme pays
The smallest silver coin, inveighs
Against such fraud with eyes ablaze?
The Deadhead.
Who to his neighbour spins harangues,
On how he views with grievous pangs
The dust that on our hangings hangs?
The Deadhead.
Who, in a voice which rings afar,
Declares, while standing at the bar,
Our drinks most deleterious are?
The Deadhead.
Who, aye withholds the claps and cheers
That others give? Who jeers and sneers
At all he sees and all he hears?
The Deadhead.
Who loudly, as the drama's plot
Unfolds, declares the tale a lot
Of balderdash and tommy-rot?
Who dubs the actors boorish hinds?
Who fault with all the scenery finds?
Who with disgust his molars grinds?
The Deadhead.
Who spreads dissatisfaction wide
'Mongst those who else with all they spied
Had been extremely satisfied?
The Deadhead.
Who runs us down for many a day,
And keeps no end of folks away
That else would for admittance pay?
The Deadhead.
Who keeps his reputation still,
For recompensing good with ill
With more than pandemonium's skill?
The Deadhead.
Who makes the bankrupt's doleful doom
In all its blackness o'er me loom?
Who'll bring my grey head to the tomb?
The Deadhead.
