HYMN TO M.G.M.

HYMN TO M.G.M. by Robert Patrick

Here it sung HERE.

Life has brought me plenty, but way back in nineteen twenty,
I could have been signed by M.G.M..
They had six or seven more stars than there are in Heaven,
All of them refined by M.G.M.
Personnel would contact any kid to sign a contract
Who could sing or dance or even swim.
They told ev’ry actor, “When you’re finished at Max Factor,
You’ll bejewel Leo’s diadem.”
Wish I was a player–scared to death of L.B. Mayer,
Serving Master Irving Thalberg’s whim–
On a Golden Age soundstage at M.G.M.

They made movie magic for the comic and the tragic
Stories that they shot at M.G.M.–
Medieval castles or a dancing lady’s tassels,
All made on the spot at M.G.M.
They’d create an ocean or an earthquake in slow motion
Or a super-duper pseudonym.
Their enormous backlot was a geographic jackpot—
Go to Rome or come home to Aunt Em.
They sent Judy Garland over rainbows to a far land,
But nobody thought, including them,
That Oz was awesome as was M.G.M.

Their amazing stable ranged from Garbo clear through Gable—
Platinum to brass at M.G.M..
They could forge a classy vehicle for Liz and Lassie.
Nothing ever crass at M.G.M..
They could make a PG picture of a book like GIGI,
All about a teenage fatal femme.
Quentin Tarantino hadn’t been born yet, but we know
They’d have sicced security on him.
In between the silents and excessive sex and vi’lence,
An apocalyptic apothegm
Was the epitome I hymn—great M.G.M.
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