The Hastings Opera House is host
To many a phantom, many a ghost
At the very top is the stage machinery
Parts of old scenery
Old flats and sets
Together with oddments one forgets
Like an old stagehand and the man who did lights,
Don’t worry about them, they only haunt nights.
In the Gods there’s a very old cleaner
Invisible so no-one has seen her
But you may hear a faint tired sigh
And see a broom as it swishes by.
The Dress Circle is really bizarre
With its faint smell of costly cigar
While the stalls have a female, an anxious Grace,
Forever searching ’neath seats for her shoe.
Backstage in the chill, the dust and gloom
You might see an iron, pressing white sheets
In the wardrobe room
And in a passage hear a faint wail or two
From a wee banshee seeking forever, the loo.
Not quite deserted in the Orchestra Pit
All by himself often will sit
A second violinist, a decent wee bloke,
Who died of shame when his E string broke
And sometimes in the shadow we can hear him
Murmur, ‘Woe.’
As he patiently, perpetually, rosins his bow.
In the Box Office the Door Sales girl is sitting
Selling ectoplasms tickets between endless rows
of knitting
Be kind to them, employ a gentle touch
Don’t interrupt their routines, over much.