Regard an ideal as a symptom of sickness;
To show sweetness and beauty and color
To those whose knowledge of tints is confined
To the rouge and the lip stick on dressers;
To pioneer in playwrighting, to delve deep into mind,
When all that the first-nighters ask is plain entertainment.
How much of the great, wholesome public, hard-working and normal,
To whom the final appeal must be made
Frequents our first nights on Broadway?
Costumers, friends of the author, and critics,
Scene painters, all of the tradesmen concerned,
Kinsfolk of mummers even to the third generation,
Wine agents, hot-house ladies, unemployed players,
Hearty laughers or ready weepers "planted."
Most of them there prepare for a funeral;
Their diversion is nodding to friends and acquaintances,
And he or she who nods the most times
Is thereby the greatest first-nighter.
Some managers open to hand-picked audiences,
Others strive to escape the regulars;
But the majority seek for the standardized premier faces
That really mean so little in the life of the play.
Listen to the comments during intermission:
"It doesn't get over!" "It's a flop!"
"What atmosphere!" "An absolute steal!"
"Such originality!" "Not a bit life-like!"
"That author has a wonderful memory!"
"He copped that lyric from Irving Berlin!"
"He's as funny as a crutch or a cry for help!"
"They grabbed that number in London!"