Ninny's Tomb

Ninny’s Tomb

 

 

Those groundlings are quite watchful,

see he has, inside thick rock cranium,

a thespian’s mind they’ll one day find

concealed backstage at Ninny’s Tomb.

A troupe of sobbing strollers on sods

gathered round shoulder by shoulder,

mourn sad passing of tin foiled soldier.

Reedy paper lips, busy licking off kisses

blown by all those buried in his playhouse;

thin stretched skin is molding skintight

against his wintery threadbare bald skull;

march hairs turned tables and took flight.

Lion heart, squatting in a director’s chair

of bandy canvas with his splashed name

across its back, in terror fears no attack

within his bunker on breeze block stage;

he’s scanning the script upon that page.

Why, man, he could play all and any part,

finds out moonshine, finds out moonshine,

for he talks a good piece, he assures us,

makes loud monstrous voice of little trust,

uses bloody rouge, costumes his truer face

in actor’s slap. ad-libbing comes easy

from behind tin megaphones. He’s barking

orders, blocking out the action, embarking

on a one act morality play that become five,

but a very good play, and a merry, he roars

most obscenely, then most courageously

will he sport the custard coloured beard:

but look; there are things in his comedy

that will never please and extempore,

where props provided him a looking glass

and he’s become enamoured of an ass.

Imagining all the world’s a critic in review,

gets out of hand, until there are no hands

left, and across the lands the trumpet blew:

acting that could make audiences swoon,

until he’ll bury you all at Ninny’s Tomb.