Gus is the cat at the theatre door. His name, as I ought to have told you before, Is really Asparagus, but that’s such a fuss to pronounce, That we usually call him, just Gus.
His coat’s very shabby, he’s thin as a rake, As he suffers from palsy which makes his paws shake. Yet he was in his youth, quite the smartest of cats, But no longer a terror to mice or to rats.
For he isn’t the cat that he was in his prime. Though his name was quite famous, he says, in his time. And whenever he joins his friends at their club, Which takes place at the back of the neighboring pub, He loves to regale them, if someone else pays. With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a star of the highest degree. He has acted with Irving, he has acted with Tree. And he likes to relate his success on the halls, Where the gallery once gave him seven cat calls! But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell, Was Fire Frore Fiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.
I have played in my time every possible part. And I used to know seventy speeches by heart. I’d extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag. And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag. I knew how to act with my back and my tail, With an hour of rehearsal I never could fail. I’d a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts, Whether I took the lead, or in character parts!
I have sat by the bedside of poor little Nell, When the curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell. In the pantomime season, I never fell flat, And I once understudied Dick Whittington’s cat! But my grandest creation, as history will tell, Was Fire Frore Fiddle the Fiend of the Fell.
Then if someone will give him a toothful of gin, He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne. At a Shakespeare performance, he once walked on Pat, When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
And I say now these kittens, They do not get trained. As we did in the days when Victoria reined. They never get drilled in a regular troupe, And they think they are smart, just to jump through the hoop!
And he says as he scratches himself with his claws,
Well, the theatre is certainly…not…what it was.
These modern productions are all very well, But there’s nothing to equal from what I hear tell. That moment of mystery, when I made history, As Fire Frore Fiddle the Fiend of the Fell.
These modern productions are all very well, But there’s nothing to equal from what I hear tell. That moment of mystery when I made…
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