This is the third in a series of sonnets for the purpose of promoting my improv shows at the PIT. In case the sonnet isn’t clear on the details, come see “Technicolor” every Monday at 9 PM in the PIT Underground.
Last night I tossed and turned in fevered dreams
In which I saw the ghost of sainted Del.
And from his gut erupted painful screams,
“What mortal dares to claim he improvs well!?”
“Tis I,” squeaked I. “And who are you?” he growled,
“To strut about, my artform to defile?”
He called his improv henchmen and he scowled,
“Another improviser for the pile.”
“Tis I!” I screamed, “And and in me is enough,
A lifetime’s slings and arrows in my soul!”
The ghost he grinned, and vanished in a puff,
And whispered thus: “You’re ready for your role.”
What other apparitions will I see?
Find out at nine, before The Faculty.
