John Wayne had a stagger,
Not from too much whiskey,
But from the work that made him a movie star.
He rode horses, shot a six shooter,
And spoke another man's words.
He became a projection of a countries imagination,
He owed it all to some writer cooped up in a bungalow;
Like a factory worker twisting bolts,
He crafted icons from coffee breath.
But John Wayne stills lingers,
He is what is left.
He survives as the ice cube for the oceans of technicians
Frozen and forgotten.
John Wayne staggers from the frame isolated and desolated.
He staggers on.
As the thousands of faceless credits
Scroll by as the music swells,
And the audience gathers their coats.
Those that are forgotten live on through
John Wayne.
The Searcher.