The last Performance

Nerves mauled, shuddering uncontrolled, eyes pleading, the brain is
willing
Control lies limp in the mind, past are the days when he used to head
the billing
Thrilling times they were, tumultuous applause as he took the leading
part
Limbs hang loose powered only by an artificial heart
Now connected up to tubes and machine that monitor day and night
Before, it was he who held the sword up high and wrong was overcome by
right
They turn him over left and right, then lift him up to ease the
sore
The critic's pen would often praise him, which made him redden to the
core
Alone he lies, there is no one left, gone are Larry, Alec, Bette,
Grace
The flashing cameras lit his golden hair, he accepts first acclaim for
"The chamberlain's Mace "
Times passes, the plug is pulled, all monitors flick off, the curtains
fall
Bathed in celestial light, he rides triumphant through the gates, met
by St. Peter and St. Paul
Banished is his mortal armour, gone the sword of war, in his hand the
cross of peace
No more, smeared across his sweating brow, the actor's paint and
grease
Loosed of the chains of life's stage, he has at last performed his
final mortal act
With bended knee he bows before his Maker, his soul shinning and
intact.