Into every song he breathed life,
even those dead treasured songs his;
But today God, he’s no more here,
numbers those are only too missed;
And his voice souls yearn now to hear.
Magic and wonder he did create,
making sure his fans happy grew;
But today his soul is floating,
those not crying there are but few;
People live without his singing.
ALSO READ | In Memory of C M Turner
Voice his dulcet made us twinkle,
Roles he played we cherished and loved.
But today his voice is not heard,
and the thoughts about him not rubbed.
Absence his was none the less feared.
Can thy bringeth him back, God dear?
Back to planet Earth now, that is.
Or must all here dwell except him,
right on Earth devoid of his bliss?
World bereft of voice his seems dim.
ALSO READ | The Man Is Dead
Splendour, pomp with all that jazz gone,
gone to holy grave, may I say?
Death does chance on all without fail,
even on ones earning huge pay.
Life I ween is an obscure sail.
Like the way rain washes all dirt,
taking them to places not known,
death’s an end with one beginning;
that beginning’s to an end prone.
All we have is time that’s running.
ALSO READ | To Each Who Asks the Question
But were a way to exist now
that could quickly bring back those dead,
SPB would be my choice clear.
None like him abide here it’s said;
Thoughts though are what I’ll hold too dear.
If only I could bring him back to life,
I would sure do so without any strife.
DO READ | Where Is God?