The Talkietypes

See them in the city street, 
   The Talkietypes of Town; 
Facsimiles from head to feet, 
   In face and form and gown.
Each, of some favoured shadow queen, 
   And almost quite as good  
The pensive, bold, demure, serene  
Their dreams are with the silver screen, 
   Their hearts in Hollywood. 

The Talkietypes are modern quite, 
   And each one knows her type; 
Each little nose is marble white, 
   Their lips are luscious ripe. 
Each knows just how she should behave  
   Smile, pose, expression, eyes  
Glamorous, roguish, vampish, grave. 
Their feet are on the city pave, 
   Their hearts are in the skies. 

In offices they toil away, 
   In factories, in shops; 
But with the close of toilful day 
   The mundane curtain drops. 
They powder noses then, and leave 
   To loose the shining bars 
Into the land of make-believe 
Their minds with shadows laugh or grieve, 
   Their hearts are with the Stars.

Now Claudette Colbert takes the tram 
   That bears her home to Mum,   
And down the street on languid feet 
   A brace of Garbos come.   
Loretta Youngs with Myrna Loy 
   On station platforms stand, 
While Sylvia Sidneys, gravely coy, 
Forsake their workaday employ 
   For dreams in Fairyland. 

The little Talkietypes are out 
   About the city ways, 
They have not much to think about 
   The scornful highbrow says. 
But these are out of touch, perchance. 
   They do not understand 
The pert, sophisticated glance 
From eyes that glimpse unguessed romance 
   For hearts in Shadowland. 

The Talkietypes, the Talkietypes, 
   Go tripping thro' the town 
To cheap romance; prudes look askance 
   And serious elders frown. 
But all too soon dreams must make way 
   For domesticity, 
For wifely cares. Let them be gay 
And seek, illusion while they may 
   In modern Arcady.