His Bread And His Art
It was an actor, seedy, sad,
Who stood within the gate;
Long weary marches he had had
He had not dined of late.
He sighed: 'I hope I don't intrude.
Believe me or I die:
For days I have not tasted food.
A stranded player I.'
'An actor man?' the lady said.
'What is your favourite role?'
'Hot, madam, and with butter spread,'
He answered from his soul.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
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