Monday, February 09, 2015


 These errant horsemen of celluloid
And their maids of modest virtue
Make a rehearsal for the Pacific
For when adored and rewarded
Immortals need no guidance
They have The Theory Of Everything
In this Imitation Game called Bafta's
Indiscreet, fawning at whims of fate
In three scenes of irrelevant affluence
The fall of humanity played out tirelessly
What the camera may only do is reinvent
But year is young and champagne flows
And they will create more art and fame
While you may assuredly applaud again