The Script Has No Third Act

The ink ran dry long before we could clutch the conclusion.
The director chugs gin, washing off the commercial illusion.
You stand by the footlights, reciting your ludicrous text,
But backstage they whisper that nobody knows what is next.
The usher locked exits, the gallery clamors to see the finale,
But the playwright took the cash and escaped down a dark, narrow alley.


And the prompter went mute, dropping his dog-eared book.
This lie has turned stale, trapped in the corner it took.


Because there is no third act in the script!
We're stranded mid-sentence, completely unequipped.
The play's torn to shreds, the catharsis forever denied,
Just a long, stupid season with nowhere left to hide.
Yes, there is no third act in the script...


The developer ate through your desperate poses and meanings,
In this stifling parlor, we've exhausted our spiritual leanings.
You're scalping the complimentary tickets to a farce that is dead,
While the critics applaud every hollow word that you said.
The lens has gone blind, but the censor washed his hands clean,
We're frozen like frames in a frantic, forgotten car chase scene.




We hunted for clues in the basements and secret archives,
In the gossip columns that itemized everyone's lives.
But the climax is dead, butchered by a drunk editor's blade,
And a silent conductor steps up as the melodies fade.


There is... no third...


The spotlights burn out with no warning, no grace.
The end... that vanished without a trace.