The Price of Fame (rev)

Do I really love you? So let me guess, you’ll
think I’m easy prey if I say, okay I do – but it
won’t delay impending fame; I will be famous,
be assured of that, please to keep it hidden
in your fancy beggar’s hat.

Be it fame or notoriety, I’ll need to parley that;
but my dream of space in bigger things will not
be done by ruse or wily subterfuge but earned
indeed by sterling deeds I deem to be my own.

I don’t know how I’ll do it yet, I know it will be
done and in the wash I’ll stand the test and shine
beside the very best; while yet I rank amongst
the rest I can surely rise with you to guide me.

Do I really love you? Yes; polished love as pure
as snow, sweet as birdsong in the morning,
neat as furrowed rows that stretch across the
fields until tomorrow. And when they recognise
my name and cry their adulation I will wear your
smile upon my lips and avidly acclaim whose
hand it was that lead me to my eminence.

You look askance; I know that troubled glance,
it says you see the fame I seek as refuse rotting
on the beach, a pile of putrid vows and vapid lies,
and you chastise yourself; it’s my demise my dear,
I’ll die a pauper anyway if I don’t play the game.
You know it is the price of fame.
© 6 August 2007, I.D. Carswell