The Dame got her fame
But didn't like what she'd got
So she stayed at home
And never left her bed.

I will never confess all to thee,
I wish my life to have some mystery.
Yes, you are my father
But, what would you rather:
A son who is slightly eccentric
Or, to discover that he is utterly demented?

I don't have much to say,
Not enough for a novel or a play,
But here it is,
What little there is...
It's a funny old world,
But the joke's wearing thin.

Loved and loathed in equal measure.
Memories to bury,
Memories to treasure.
A source of strife,
A source of joy.
He'd sussed out life
And spread his wisdom
Infected others with his cynicism.
We're sad he's gone,
We're glad he's gone.
We will miss him...
on occasion.