Madame Eulalie’s Rare Plums

I WENT to book a ticket for to see a modern play;
The man behind the counter said, “There’s no such thing to-day.
Every actor who has any self-respect is being starred
In the brightly-written masterpiece of England’s Only Bard.”
It’s ‘Hamlet’ here, and ‘Hamlet’ there.
And ‘Hamlet’ ‘on next week’.
An actor not in “Hamlet” is regarded as a freak.

A pleasant farce with music would, I thought, be to my mind,
But not a single pleasant farce with music could I find.
At every theatre which I sought men answered with a bow,
“We’ve given up our farces. We are playing ‘Hamlet’ now.”
It’s ‘Hamlet’ this, and ‘Hamlet’ that,
And “‘Hamlet’—Mr Jones”.
Our starving British dramatists are mainly skin and bones.

I went into a music-hall, but soon came out of it
On seeing some comedians in a painful ‘Hamlet’ skit,
And a gentleman who gave some imitations, all alone,
Of other people’s Hamlets, plus a Hamlet of his own.
It’s ‘Hamlet’ this, and ‘Hamlet’ that,
And ‘Hamlet’, day by day.
Shakespeare and Bacon must regret they ever wrote the play.

I don’t deny that ‘Hamlet’ has its merits as a play:
In many ways it’s finer than the drama of to-day.
But with all respect to Bacon (and his colleague) I protest
That I think the British Public is entitled to a rest.
It’s ‘Hamlet’ here, and ‘Hamlet’ there,
And “‘Hamlet’—Record Run”.
It seems to me the masterpiece is being overdone.