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.
