Proscenium, Arch

The actors gathered to discuss their parts,
The mad director thrilled at how it went,
While their producer thought the money spent
Was tragedy, simple and plain: six tarts
And seven bloody ignorant tin hearts
Would make a hash of any sentiment
In any play worth more than half a cent,
She thought, but that's the way it always starts.

What was this play about? Damn, who could tell?
Were there some sharp retorts? No – what were those?
If they were lucky, someone's skimpy clothes
Would show off cleavage that the ads could sell,
Or, even better, one fine lass might yell
And slip her panties off. Yes! Standing Os!