Leading Man

He played electric harpsichord,

performed the stunts for Director Ford.

He once took down a crocodile

and ran the fourth four-minute mile.

He drove fast cars but kept his cool,

slightly reckless but no-one's fool.

Men would tremble in his presence,

ladies swooned at his acquaintance.

His daring deeds were circulated,

his alpha status celebrated.

He put mere mortals in their place,

He had a rugged, chiselled face.

He grew a beard in forty hours,

knocked back double whisky sours,

smoked a pipe which he inhaled,

always succeeded, never failed.

Had blue steel gaze and coiffured hair,

the most athletic millionaire.

He skied in France and always won,

he played our heroes in the sun,

with huge explosions and satellite phone

and despite his height, only thirteen stone.

With lines delivered at their best

in dulcet tones his voice possessed.

He swam for glory and won awards,

Olympic diving from the highest boards.

He could do most anything,

excelled in all his life could bring.

You'd think that nothing could compare

to the dream he lived, but please beware.

For sadly he was all alone,

he was too perfect on his throne.

Despite the swooning, ladies faltered

at this faultless life that he had altered.

He could not hope to meet the truth

of the fact he'd faced from his early youth.

For in those days of Hollywood,

no leading actor ever could,

be anything that strayed from straight,

for that would instantly negate

investment in commodity

that could be deemed an oddity.

He lived a lie, love never sated,

a closet life the studio dictated,

never to be true to him,

with guilt that ripped him limb from limb

and now he rests within his grave,

a life that's lauded, but we could not save.

He played a part in work and life,

with marriage front and lonely wife.

Faith called it abomination;

his unintended aberration.

But surely now we must atone

to the man who was famous without being known.

 

By Alan Dickie