Someday I Suspect, When Jesus Has Definitely

Criticism And Bolshevism Have One Thing In Common. They Both Seek To Pull Down That Which They Could Never Build.

I Never Cared Who Scored The Goal, Or Which Side Won The Silver Cup. I Never Learned To Bat Or Bowl; But I Heard The Curtain Going Up.

The Air Is Like A Draught Of Wine. The Undertaker Cleans His Sign, The Hull Express Goes Off The Line, When It's Raspberry Time In Runcorn.

The Theatre Should Be Treated With Respect. The Theatre Is A Wonderful Place, A House Of Strange Enchantment, A Temple Of Illusion. What It Most Emphatically Is Not And Never Will Be Is A Scruffy, Ill-lit, Fumed-oak Drill Hall Serving As A Temporary Soap Box For Political Propaganda.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.