PUTTIN ON THE RITZ
by Paul Callus
She went to London where the gold-paved streets
glittered not in rainy foggy mornings.
In vain she knocked on doors in search of fame.
Uttered from beyond thick lighted cigars,
idle promises drifted hazily,
like suffocating smoke that filled the air.
Her talents never stood an acting chance,
but offers came dependant on her looks,
the long toned legs, attractive sex appeal.
Clinging to hope, she bit at proffered bait,
she gave her all, and acted at his will,
away from the bright lights of screen or stage.
She played the part of mistress to her man;
she lacked for nothing and lived like a queen,
but in the process she gave up her dreams.
She had the jewellery and choice of clothes
most fashionable and extravagant,
while hobnobbing with high society.
Sadly, she lived a life that was not hers,
following a dull script of make-belief.
Her heart was torn, her soul deceived and worn.
The pain within became too much to bear.
She knew no joy; had only grief to share.
Her life she took – a victim of despair.
|
