Those old school friends with their cigarette lips
They don't think of the likes of me or you,
Up on the golden screen.
We weren't quite quiet or reckless
We trialled in something temperate but restless.
Something we bore down to bone,
A noisy belief in man, blurred like a Monet, believed to be etched in stone.
But those old school friends, like you and I, had frames to contain their Icarus flight.  Now, follow on in your new momentary monetary monastery you now call home.
The curious truth is the note is a note regardless of the flute. The credits close, the air stalled, and most rigorously life itself cares not for the "who", but slitheringly moves on.