By: LisbethaePosted on: August 27, 2009
- Lights dim in the Theatre Prophasia, the audience grows quiet.*
- Foot lights flicker on the empty stage.*
- A lone actor, dressed in mismatching clothing of slightly the wrong size,
stumbles in stage right.*
- He bows low, removing his large hat with a flourish as his nose nearly reaches
the stage floor.*
- He stands, hat over heart, then looks out to the audience.
- He opens his mouth, then shuts it, and blushing lowers his eyes to the stage.*
- He tugs lightly on his clothing smoothing some wrinkles, then he again looks
out to the audience, clears this throat, takes a deep breath and begins.*
In the city of my heart,
What detail sets her far apart
from other cities, filled with life
and many dramas filled with strife,
With daily variety and speed
beyond all person's want or need?
-I'm sure you wait with anticipation.-
The topic is precipitation.
Snow, hail, sleet and ice!
Cyrene is blessed, with many thrice
the rate that other cities might.
Blizzards make us lose our sight!
We cannot cry,"Rain, go away!",
for it will come another day
with memory of that last slight
and drench us now with twice the might!
Of snow, we wax poetically,
with frostbite treated medically,
of snowball fights in city streets
when icy sphere one's visage meets.
Nor forget we, sleet or hail,
which does not suffer any frail
constitution to live well herein.
Our people are more stout...than thin.
To stand up in the mighty fluff,
to slip and slide down yonder bluff
on red toboggan. "Jump aboard!"
And with us riding, many score.
The rain doth fall by buckets full
and bathtubs full and tents-a-full
and whilst the rain does comes in sheets-
It is the snow that blankets streets...
I've heard it said in yonder dell
of Cyrene-folk there is a tell.
Can you guess it, bet you can't!
They are Cyrenian if they're damp.
- The actor taps his nose with a knowing wink, bows again, turns and hurriedly
exits stage left*