I don't know about you, my friends,
- But I can't leave the theatre when a movie ends;
- A hunger gnaws inside my soul
- Until I've seen the final credits roll.
-
- Now, the actors' names I don't wish to view
- I've seen their faces on the screen;
- Ditto the creative crew
- Whose style was stamped on every scene.
-
- No, the names that really interest me
- Are those who toil in obscurity;
- Like, who typed the manuscript revisions?
- Who fed the carpenters and electricians?
-
- Who was it manned the wind machine?
- I cheer the name of the payroll clerk,
- The stand-by driver of the limousine,
- The girl who dragged the dogs to work.
-
- I long to learn the identity
- Of best boy, key grip, continuity;
- Though their functions must forever be
- Darkly draped in mystery.
-
- So, I hang in, sitting tight
- Till the final fade--the copyright.
- Then, heading up the aisle
- A revelation makes me smile:
-
- Suppose all us--us working slobs
- Got credit for our thankless jobs?
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