"Critic of the black and white, it's your first night.
The Passion Play gets in the way, spoils your insight.
Tell me how the baby's made, how the lady's laid,
Why the old dogs howl with sadness.

And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings
Away on the bony shoulder of a young horse named
George, who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision.
The examining body examined her body.

"Actor of the low-high IQ, let's hear your view.
Peek at the lines upon your sleeves, since your memory won't do.
Tell me how the baby's graded, how the lady's faded,
Why the old dogs howl with madness.

"All of this and some of that's the only way to skin the cat.
And now you've lost a skin or two; you're for us, and we're for you.
The dressing room is right behind: we've got you taped; you're in the Play.
How does it feel to be in the Play?
How does it feel to play the Play?
How does it feel to be the Play?

"Man of passion, rise again; we won't cross you out,
For we do love you like a son--of that there's no doubt.
Tell us: is it you who are here for our good cheer,
Or are we here for the glory--for the story--
For the gory satisfaction of telling you how absolutely awful you really are?"

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