Intubation Poem by Percy Dovetonsils

Here's to the bitter old bitches
who sit around their Hollywood apartments
stewing
after having tasted
a mite of fame
decades before
and then being spat out
by the Cracker Factory
as too old, too difficult, too drunk,
not pretty enough
any longer
but certainly not
because not willing
to f- k
the right
producer
or director.

If only they could've found
the right director
willing to f- k them
they most certainly
would've,
what's a stray f- k or two
compared
to an all important
career
in film?

And then there was
the falling off.
The several,
more or less respectable,
years
spent guest starring
in episodics,
and even starring
in a couple pilots
which went
absolutely nowhere.

Followed by some time
feeding off their nano fame
in road companies
and even summer stock.
"Who do I have to f- k
to get off this nightmare? "
And the answer was,
a banker, a broker, a diagnostician,
a surgeon, a realtor, a civilian.
But needless to say,
that was just another nightmare
which couldn't possibly contain
the never satisfied,
the boundless
ego
of a wouldbe diva
and soon came the divorce
and the inadequate alimony
which, combined with the SAG
and AFTRA benefits and the SS
enabled bitter her
to live
like a mini Norma Desmond,
feeding on her broken dreams,
trading angry stories
over coffee
with similarly disappointed divas
and waiting for the day
when she grew
senile enough
to forget
all the wonderful roles
she should've gotten.

Finally came
The Old Actors' Home
in the West Valley,
the a.c. breaking down
on August days
and the pandemic
sweeping through
so fast
they scarcely
had time
to hook her up
to a ventilator
before
she expired,
struggling,
in her last coma,
to remember
the lines
of a role
she never
won.