The stars don't shine for Johnny B.
When they come out on Johnny C.
They never seem to be themselves,
When other selves are on the shelves.
And, not their names, "personalities."
He's losing his grip on reality.
Of shattered windows whole again,
Of actors faces changing when,
A stunt is done within the film.
Of flying cars and flaming crash,
a bright inferno from the clash,
And yet they live within the kiln.
Of these a smile simply plays
Across his face while others rave.
The hidden host invades his mind.
While others view the few pristine,
He feels the mass in every scene.
The grunts and grips and gripes and groups,
Of those who spend great hordes of time,
To make the fantasy sublime.
His wife must think him queer at times,
For when Seductress number nine,
Comes oozing in and parts her lips,
He laughs outloud at would be kiss.
The madness revealed has set him free.
He's losing his grip on reality.
The stars don't shine for Johnny B.
But most of all he won't believe
The whispers from his own TV.
A mad, glad man is he.