Tim Conway, quirky comedian, leaves us with a smile.

Time, Tim.

Just days after the departure of Doris Day
Tim Conway has gone and gone the same way,
He’s done last his run, he’s taken his final bow,
He’ll be asking Saint Peter about any openings by now.

Who could ever forget
Tim cracking up Carol Burnett
And leaving the entire set
With cheeks and tidy-whities wet?

So Tim has sadly gone, and only God knows why-
Perhaps, these days, He feels He needs a funny guy?
Lordy, it’s not for us to question the likes of Thou
But he’s gone, and left, and it’s a sadder world now.

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The final curtain call for Doris Day. A lovely person, apparently, but her screen persona was quite, shall we say, twee?

YesterDay.

We say goodnight to Doris today,
At ninety-seven she’s faded away,
No more virtuous parts will Doris play,
Bye, Americas eternally virginal sweetheart.

Perpetually preppy peppy Doris Day,
No movie dared show her going astray,
Not the kind of girl to take a roll in the hay,
Always the sweet girl-next-door, never the tart.

‘No no no’ our Doris must always say,
No petting, no rucking up of the duvet,
No deflowering of Doris, no hint of foreplay-
Not even with Rock Hudson gayly playing his part.

Doris was forever doomed to portray
The gal who favoured pajamas over negligee,
The blonde who’d kneel before bed- and pray!
No impassioned puckering could prise her lips apart.

Luke Perry leaves. An obit, of sorts. Not being a fan of 90210, maybe I’m not as upset as I should be. But hey, as the man himself said, ‘everyone’s a critic.’

Spoiler Alert.

Sorry, Luke Perry, for you, at 52, it’s time to go,
Yep, your number’s up, it’s Forest Lawn, not 90210,
Your final role is an unrehearsed and tragic one,
You’ve played your bit part, now the play is done.

E’en now, once teenage girls cry into their bouquets,
Pining, remembering a Dylan back in his salad days,
Still, Luke won’t have to see a slow sad decline,
To face his once-fresh face settle on another line.

Another icon of the sixties exits the stage. ‘Bye Peter Tork, you’ll live on, in re-runs.

Four, ‘Bye Two.

Ex-Monkee Peter Tork has gone and accompanied the Grim Reaper,
He’s hoping he can wangle an opening with St. Peter the Gatekeeper,
For old bandmates Dolenz and Nesmith this is a sad day,
Out on the unending Nostalgia Tour, still plugging away,
No chance of a trio now Pete’s on the last train to Clarkesville;
Now there’s only Micky and Mike left behind to half fill the bill.

(This came out a lot snarkier than intended, I don’t know why. Perhaps I’m a bit over too many groups/parts of groups/second cousins twice removed of groups still on the gravy train. (A sad day for Pete and fun music, in truth.)

Not much help, being a blubber-mouth when a strong voice is required. Words can fail me sometimes, but my family never does.

In My Eye.

I sat misty eyed all through the eulogy,
Fine words heard makes it hard to see,
When my daughter rose I went to her side,
To stand strong, some comfort to provide.

If she faltered with her words I’d said
I’d take on the recitation in her stead,
But when I stood forth, as if to speak
Well, damn my eyes, they began to leak.

I had said I would speak up without a quaver
But on looking down the words began to waver,
So I stood by, mournfully manfully staunching my eye,
Ah, but my daughter spoke far more eloquently than I.

Sometimes, life is not fair. Sometimes, life is sad. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.

Starry Night.

In the middle of the night, when you get that call
You know, the blackness can get darker, after all,
There’s nothing left to do
But step outside to think it through,
You find your mind and time stand terribly still
As you follow your feet on the climb up Calton Hill.

Look to the sky and see, in the unfathomable black
A myriad of stars, a galaxy blinking- and winking back,
And there’s nothing you can do
But gaze up to see the night through,
To wait and watch till in the east, black turns to grey
As slowly, ever slowly, the light dawns on a new day.

(For T)

Flicking through the ol’ holiday papers and stumbled across last years news. There, in the obituaries, it’s still sad news to see.

Off The Hook. (Ray Sawyer, Adieu.)

He sang songs about proper mothers and Rolling Stone covers
And keeping his beautiful woman away from wannabe lovers,
But Ray, lay down the cowboy hat, the eye patch and say ‘see ya later’
To Sylvia’s formidable mother and that bitchy long distance operator,
Put aside those sly wry songs, sung with a knowing wink of the eye,
Hang up your hat, hang up the phone, let it go, it’s time for goodbye.