The writers have all the zingers.
They just have no one to say them to.
So they fit them down,
it takes days —
and after that —
they still don’t have anybody
to give them to.
So they shine up the words,
staple them in,
and give them to actors
they meet at the Laund-ro-mat
and there you go.
Somebody ought to have fun.
Let the actor get some cred.
It’s what he’s waited for,
hanging around Paramount, auditioning over
cold yoghurt and hot coffee —
He always knew there’d be a glyph
somewhere for him to bite off,
the stupid brick.
At least the actor’s alive —
in and out of parking lots,
standing in the shower saying his credo,
preening in the mirror, counting his rice cakes-
the dumb ass was the smart one all along with his
tight muscled careening to La Jolla,
in some broads’ car. A great looking guy
could have said mla mla mla and
he still would have killed in the wings,
kissing some ingénue between scenes.
It’s the writer was the misfit.
All along, going around, no nightlife,
parents calling all hours from Florida.
Only reason he’s got those zingers to begin with
is because he has nothing else doing.