Oh dear O’ Dea, can it be that you are gone,
“Descendant of the Gods”, home to the gods you’ve flown!
Has the king of drollery left an empty chair,
Gone from hence leaving no apparent heir.
The side – splitting monologue gone, the wise cracks cease,
The jolly song no more we hear, the party piece.
Dame Mulligan in stitches once had all, they even jived,
Long years ere Hollywood the rocking cult contrived.
Oh dear, O’Dea, mayhap you’re amongst us still,
An institution such no power there is could kill;
Wherever mirth explodes or rippling song,
You’d heaven forbear, we think, and come along;
Where there’s brilliant lines to speak, or histrionic art to play,
Soft beat your wings; You’ll not be far away!

Note the Focus on the Resurrection