Classic Poem

'Tis a pity She's a Whore; last acted — Lord
Knows when! Revived (and played to-night before 'em)
By the Phaenician Stage Association;
Whose staunch subscribers, eager to applaud
Examples of archaic indecorum,
Combine with this their chaste discrimination.

Though Lamb extolled it, highbrows here allude
(Rapt in a Freudian future) to its " crude
And obsolete psychology" . . . Detractors
Shatter my estimates I'm disposed to think
(Wandering between the Acts in search of drink)
That the Audience gets between me and the Actors.

They squeeze and smoke; a jabbering, conscious crowd
Of intellectual fogies, fools, and freaks, —
A cultural inferno, parrot-loud
With cliches of accumulated weeks:
While, here and there, some calmly chatting Sage
(Immortalized by Max ) exhibits fame
That awes the advertisers of our Age, —
Those Press-concerned celebrities who came
Intent to shine conspicuous in the stalls.

'Tis Pity She's a Whore . . . The curtain falls
On a composed but corpse-encumbered stage
Of expiated incest. Curtain-calls
Re-animate the agonists of passion.
And I'm aware, half-hostile and confused,
That, much though the Phaenicians were amused,
Old Mermaid Dramatists are out of fashion.