Howard Firkin
One day the news will break from Hollywood:
the team of dags and fat kids never wins—
the chiselled, handsome bastards are too good;
the weak might make a stand (and so might nine pins)
but true hearts only triumph in large frames.
They won’t beat city hall, put on that show,
outbox the bullies, win the gorgeous stars;
they’ll cower in the crossfire, die in snow,
be slain inglorious: the unknown extras.
There! Missing from the credits! Read their names.

They’ll pay to watch their stories on the screen,
the orphans born without the royal mark,
enduring life, scene after dreary scene,
while spilling tears and popcorn in the dark.