"Yes", Clive Harness said to Faye Paynter.
"Yes I can pass it on to Heather Hopper
But would you not prefer the leading role too?
Alice sounds like you and it would be a sensation;
An actress who performs her own screenplays."
"Never mind about all that." Faye Paynter replied.
"Oh hello Truman, how are things at Tiffany's?"
As he said this in his worst ingratiating tone
Clive Harness tripped on the toes of the teenage sensation
Destined for greatness, an Oscar Wilde reborn.
Clive did not fall but he had to wave his arms about
Looking slightly ridiculous for a man in a suit.
"Everyone wore suits!" Eric Stanislavski bemused.
The floor was marble. Shoes tapped on it.
Outside where the tables stood it was brick.
Shoes had polished it to a vaguely autumnal gloss,
Sometimes rubbing them in uncontrollable mirth,
Sometimes grinding them around in nervousness
Or scraping up suddenly to greet an important person.
Concluding everlasting pacts of literary alliance
Sometimes took place huddled in the chilly air,
Hands clasped around cups of hot chocolate
Prepared in the Italian manner of middle density,
Warming the hearts towards some measure of bonhommie.
In such a setting Eric and Faye looked upon the star.
Craig Paynter Stanislavski kept his hair well trimmed.
In tweeds, it was how a young architect ought to look.
He saw that the Coffee Shop was now full of beatniks.
There was this guy, a folk singer, with harmonica and guitar.
He told everyone that one day he was going to make it,
On the other side, in the basements of Greenwich Village.
Why, the other day the same guy got himself a Nobel Prize!
