The Grand Old Man of town,

He makes his films and cries:

The scenes contain no love,

No hope, no joy – just lies.

 

He’s had to do a deal

And play their dirty games,

Although until this day

He does not know their names.

 

The power of his dreams

Has been reduced to dust;

He’s had to tow the line

To earn himself a crust.

 

And in a year or two

The world will be like this:

A bolted paradise

For someone’s artless bliss.