From Moscow and Mork,
And the genie uncorked,
You were brilliant in all you were playing,
But how did I miss
In the Dead Poets grist
The pain that your heart had been saying?
O Robin, I wish
For some way to resist
Seeing all in the light of your dying
It never does work,
We’re all of us hurt,
When you go and leave all of us crying,
But I know the cost
Of your heart’s hidden loss
When the weight swings away from the high-ing.
I must now go on
Now sad and forlorn,
And remember the laughter and sighing.
So, here’s to the master
Of joy and of laughter,
To Robin: Thank you for playing
