At last the end has come and gone,
for performance writing 101.
They organised a reading night,
much to everyone's delight.
Everyone, that is, except for me,
I'd have stayed home happily.
But I dragged my lazy arse out of bed,
so that my shitty monologue could be read.
The other students were diverse,
impressing with each awesome verse.
There were plays about romance and some about rape.
A guy was wearing masking tape.
I noticed lots of gimmicks and tricks,
at which point I was shitting bricks.
All I had was an A4 sheet,
Lying underneath my seat.
Eventually they announced my turn,
I felt my cheeks begin to burn.
I clumsily opened my awful script,
and cursed aloud when it nearly ripped.
Afterwards I felt depressed.
The whole thing was a fucking mess.
I'd like to say I kept my pride,
but that part of me also died.
At the end they clapped politely,
I think I might have pissed myself slightly.
I left the stage and sat back down,
..."David" is a proper noun...?
The worst part of the night by far,
was the lack of any kind of bar.
Perhaps my reading might not have stunk,
if I'd been completely drunk.
By the way I should mention that,
if you're wondering what happened to Frankencat,
he got all creative and moved to L.A.
He's currently directing his very own play.
This flow of ideas is starting to pass.
(I pulled that last stanza out of my arse).
I'll post again when there's something to say.
Thank you so much and have a nice day.
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