'Twas the night before the opera when all through the House
Not a ballet tart stirred, not even the louse
Who minded the flies and watched the girls dress
In tutus and stockings and even much less.
Tonight he lay wasted, stone-drunk, no doubt,
His whisky bottles empty and rolling about.
Whilst out in the pantry a slight rustling was heard.
The fat tenor helped himself to a serving, his third,
Of the cook's special pudding, now his midnight snack
All gone in two gulps as he must really get back
To his lady, the diva in more ways than one,
But what mattered was talent, and of this she had none.
She sat at her dresser pining for action in bed
Despite mud on her face and curlers on her head.
Pissed off with her beau, she bemoaned, "Ah, I see!
De bastard love-a pudding more than he love-a me!"
The tall manager looked forward to tomorrow's affair
And thought with much relish of the rich who'd be there.
His short partner, though wary and less certain than he,
Agreed that their business was as good as can be.
The tall one imagined his coffers cascading
This time tomorrow with cash he'll be cradling.
"The money's in opera, not junk, luck would have it."
And the short one retorted, "Scrap metal, goddammit!"
The company's new star lay awake in deep thought.
Her training, her vocalizing—all that was for naught,
For she'd been assigned the role of the mute.
"To hell with it," she said, "At least I'll look cute."
And that's what's important, since her friend was in town,
And he was the hottest in all Paris, hands down.
He'd be at the show, she later had found.
She'll charm off his knickers without making a sound.
But how could she know that on nights such as this,
His idea of fun and unparalleled bliss
Was to work up his hair into a mighty fine lather
And stare at the ceiling till cobwebs would gather?
He'd soak in the tub for hours on end
And giggle and sing, "Pantene's my best friend!"
The mistress of ballet made her usual rounds,
Her senses second only to those of a hound's.
She knows trouble's brewing and that they'd all pay,
For the Phantom was here! didn't her kid always say?
True enough, down below, a long ways away,
The Opéra Ghost prepared for the big day.
He writes down a list of the things he'll be needing
To make sure those two fools fin'lly get he's worth heeding:
A throat spray for the diva to croak like a toad,
A lasso to relieve the flies of their load,
A right wicked cape to swoosh around, at least,
And of course, a half-mask, for he's a damn sexy beast.
He knows what's behind it, his face all but gone.
But the ladies will swoon as long as he keeps it on.
"Did I not instruct…" he rehearsed his line with great poise,
And smirked with satisfaction at the sound of his voice.
With a flourish, he vowed to demolish the gala,
"Or my name isn't Phantom of the Opéra!"
Copyright © 2005 by Evil Clinky