The Comic

He travels a lot for gigs.
Marriage, for him, is out of the question.
His art is a fine obsession...
It's all to make the people laugh.
He practices facial expressions for hours...in front of
bathroom mirrors,
In seedy motel rooms...he writes monologues with verve,
no gloom...
He likes to light up a room with his material...
For you see...he is a comic.
He answers the hecklers, without showing fear.
He counters their barbs with put downs so clear...
He brings the house down.
The house doesn't see his angst, and sweat...
Pre-show jitters are always a threat...
He forges ahead without a regret...
For he knows he is a comic
Sometimes he enters silent clubs.
No one is there, that is the rub...
He gives his all...
He pretends he is playing Carnagie Hall.
He knows, there will be nights like this...
Getting drunk on stage, with nowhere to piss...
The nights he bombs are the worst...
His jokes are dead, his mind in a hearse...
Clawing and scratching, to get out of his grave...
Joke after joke, will not save the comic.
Year after year, success is more fleeting...
Age creeping up, he's taking a beating.
No money saved, no 401K, he sees only darkness,
a potters field grave.
Alone in his room, after the show...
There's always the whiskey, the whores, and the blow...
He'll ride the wave till it crashes down...
Leaving him a sad, old, clown.
He did it for the people, you know.
Night after night, he brought them his show...
Making them laugh, while on a roll...
He was a comic.
Now he eats hamburger, rather than steak...
The crowds aren't there now, it must be his fate...
He never gave up, he always stayed true...
He did it for me, he did it for you.