The director

How sick the ego's ivory tower
self confidence of the director
employs the casting couch boudoir
the leach, sex metal detector

For those smooth words
trust her in a lying arm lock
the lead is yours with sweet allures
if you just caress my cock

The contract lying there unsigned
 cups that fell to show her breasts
her bra unfastened from behind
for nude scene's I only want the best

Long legs on hoardings to attract
and shapely arse just not to fat
for I must vet them all
so just recline and rub my balls

Your labia must be pronounced
hold the undertones of a virgins gasp
when the Oscars are announced
I must split your fanny with my mast

Ride you like a western stallion
the make believe of a Disney classic
authenticate the on screen passion
the banal is never too fantastic

Hammer the peg into the socket
for hate will sprout and so will profit
starlets on bumpy ride to fame
 director be the first to stake a claim

In the griped unconscious pain
each episode flickers frame  by frame
a rom com turned into a genre horror
its wound not healing, its choking collar

Locked in chains, red carpets lead
 crying and the hurting, all precede
some shooting stars will fall to earth
 suicide an escape to find rebirth

And in that script the writer mapped
 A Shakespear's weave of violence and sex
and tread the Old Vic boards perhaps
a cruel charade a life with no prospects