List, list, O, list! I’m C-List now, at most,
and that’s no place for Hamlet’s father’s ghost—
condemned to work a “Haunted London” tour,
where though my voice and visage are still dour,
childish laughter always greets my line
about the fearsome, fretful porpentine.
Doomed to haunt my agent’s by the day,
who offers only prospects without pay,
like—O, and what a falling off was here—
that public health campaign for swimmer’s ear.
But now I’m not forbad to tell my tale
and hope to sell a series to The Mail,
then get a brow-lift and a facial peel,
switch to ICM, and ink a deal,
which may once more my fading shade illumine,
when I debut on next year’s Being Human.
__________________
-- Frank
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