A Tribute to Samuel Beckett

You walk into the theatre and blink,

there’s a lump of tree and a lump of moon

and then what seems a lump of lump I think,

intrigued you’ll wait, hoping it will start soon.

Then the actors enter, wearing lumpy

clothes. Then they sit and with them you must wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait till you’re jumpy,

impatient for a line that you can get

behind all the wit, behind all the strange,

“is this a play about waiting,” you ask,

“sure it’s in the title, but that’s deranged

to say that waiting’s an engrossing task

         screw this, I want my money back.” So you

         leave, good bye you, go on Beckett, please will you.