Frequently I'm waiting in the wings.
Sometimes in the balcony, watching everything.
Weekends have me crouching in the pit.
You'd prefer me to be home, roasting on a spit.

I stalk beneath the stage while you're above,
I'm wading through your soggy lines, mopping torpid love.
You really make it sound almost sincere.
My firewood's getting damp down here, dripped on by the tears.