It makes no sense that I was made
Within the play to turn and face
My very ghost. (Like middle age,
It's seen as a foreseen mistake).

Now scan this scene of love and rage
-- Some lie for love and some are laid,
Some spew their spawn upon the stage:
It makes no sense that I was made.

At times the growing plot can make
One feel a little out of place,
With out-takes and an undertake
Within the play to turn and face.

The wraith appeared, the watchmen prayed
-- I prayed and cursed a bit backstage,
Alas, this act could not evade
My very ghostlike middle age.

Life's mysteries I must embrace,
For all my acting cannot break
My final curtain's open case
-- It's seen as a foreseen mistake.

As for the audience, some say
That past the limelight sits my shade.
All my life is but a play
And yet to me from scene to fade
It makes no sense.