They’ve got me down for a hick, bo,
Sam Harris says I’m the best boob in the biz,
And that no manager will cast me for anything else. 
Curses on my hit in “’Way Down East”
That handcuffs me forever to yokels,
And me a better character actor than Corse Payton! 
That’s how it is they’re stuck on types,
And the wise guy who plays anything
Isn’t given a look-in. 
Listen to me, young feller, and don’t ever
Let ’em tab you for keeps as a type. 
It’s curtains for a career as sure as you’re born. 
Why, there’s actors sentenced to comedy dog parts,
To Chinks, to Wops, to Frenchmen and fluffs. 
There ain’t no release for them. 
The producers and managers can see only one angle,
And you may be a Mansfield or Sothern. 
It’s outrageous that’s what it is, that make-up
And character acting should be thrown in the discard. 
You can sit in an agent’s office for months
Before a part comes along that you fit without fixin’. 
This natural stuff puts the kibosh on art
And a stock training ain’t what it used to be. 
Say, if ever I rise to be hind legs of a camel
Or a bloodhound chasing Eliza, I’ll kick or I’ll bite
The type-choosing manager.

GEORGE M. COHAN

Blessed be Providence
That gave us our Cohan;
Irreverent,
Resourceful, prolific, steady-advancing
George M.
Nothing in life
Better becomes him
Than his earliest choice
Of Jerry and Helen
For father and mother;
Bred in the wings and the dressing room,
The theatre alley his playground,
Hotels his home and his schoolhouse,
Blessed with a wonderful sister,
And in love with a violin. 
From baby days used to the footlights,
With infrequent teachers of book lore
In the cities of lengthy engagements
Showing him pages of learning
That he turned from to life’s open volume,
Acquiring indelible lessons,
Loyalty, candor, clear seeing,
Sincerity, plain speaking, love of his own,
Passion for all things American. 
From Jerry, his father,
Came Celtic humor, delight in the dance,
And devotion to things of the theatre;
From Helen, his mother,
Depth, Celtic devotion to things of the spirit,
Fineness of soul. 
Early he turned from his fiddle
To write popular songs
And tunes so whistly and catchy
That the music of a child
Enraptured the nation. 
Then followed comedy sketches,
Gay little pieces that made public
And player-folk chatter of Cohan. 
Later, essaying the musical comedy,
He wrote “Running for Office,”
To be followed by that impudent
Classic of fresh young America,
“Little Johnnie Jones.” 
One followed another in rapid succession;
His name grew a cherished possession,
And ever his dancing delighted. 
His manner of singing and speaking
Provoked to endless imitation. 
His personality became better known