Ode to the Late Great Robin

I was only 4 when I ran down the hall–fresh from the TV.
I ran with an unspoken mission from the Muses of Awe.
A-ha! I thought to myself. I want to do that too!
And won’t my family get a good laugh then?

When my mother and sister found me, I was screaming for help.
Something had gone terribly wrong. Unable to duplicate the comedy
magic I had just witnessed on the TV screen, I was utterly flummoxed
and running out of air.

I, too, wanted to do the bit in which Mork’s shirt gets ripped off
only to reveal an infinite number of shirts beneath it.
It was the funniest thing I had ever witnessed in my young life
and I wanted to make my family laugh the way he made us all laugh.

There I was, clad in every t-shirt I owned, wondering what went wrong.
What did I know? I was just a silly kid.
I thought that Gilligan was doomed to perish any day and
there really was a black & white southern town without any black folks in it
and a whole lotta whistlin’.

Nobody ever had to ask me to suspend my disbelief back then.
Today I sing another tune as I dearly miss the magician.

 

 

 

 

 

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