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Postmodern Village
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In Memory of Jack Klugman
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

Cry out, fellow mourners, rage at the wild TV God,
Who would take from us our Quincy.
His perpetually superior anger fades even now.
Cry out, you of the fan club; don't let him die.

Cry out. We do not want the new.
We miss the old, the grouchy, the rumpled.
But he is gone from us, from Sam.
Cry out against the horror of it all.

Cry out in grief little Fujiyama.
For him you will cut with no more.
Cry out against the murders which will go unsolved.
Cry out in defense of the downtrodden dead masses.

Cry out that you will have no one
To drink with at Danny's,
To push between thou and Dr. Astin,
To call for higher laws and better manners.

Cry out against the poisoners, the creative sinners
Who feared that brown station wagon of his
With "CORONER" spelled out in black letters.
Cry out to bring dishonor on the L.A. County office.

Cry out to Lt. Monahan for justice,
To quell the slander and the spite
And smite that new rip-off that airs on NBC.
Cry out against the pale imitators.

Cry out against the odd shapes
Of foul diseases which shall now run rampant,
Of plagues which shall go unchecked,
Of lusts which shall go unnoticed.

Cry out, Sam, let us hear you.
Where are you now anyway?
Please tell me that it isn't true.
You aren't dead, too?

***
Ridiculously based on a passage from In Memoriam by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), the full text of which can be found at http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?prmID=2484.

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