Darthy, We Hardly Knew Ye

This piece is a modest tribute to Ian Doescher, author of the nifty bestseller William Shakespeare’s Star Wars.  Ladies and gentlemen, get out your handkerchiefs.

(Princess Leia, dressed entirely in black, stands before a motley assembly of mourners.  A veil partly obscures her weeping visage from prying eyes, as she adjusts one of the headphones made of hair before beginning to speak.)

Princess Leia

Dartholemew Robertson Vader,

we are gathered here today

to commit thy Siberian cyber-cadaver

to burial at space in the name of thine

insidious empire.  Thou canst now resteth

in peace after having made perpetual war

upon the galaxy for eons, having no respect

for us plebeian peons in they planet-

plundering reign.  And yet we, in our

camaraderie cultivated by compassion–

unless it is in fact the other way around–

and a spirit of eternal forgiveness, do

mourn thy passage with the self-same

obsequies and sniffling sorrow of obsequious

sheep, knowing an identical fate

eventually awaits us, when we join you

in the junkyard of disintegrating meteors

and spaceships in the ever-expanding

cosmic scrap-heap that surrounds our souls.

We surrender our resentment towards thee

for having annihilated Tatooine with a laser

fired from the Death Star.  Thou wert only

human within thy crusty exoskeleton,

laborious respiratory special effects

and menacing stentorian Verizon-enriching

baritone notwithstanding.  Hence, we weep

in the wake of thy passage, ill-advised

on how to exist in a universe without evil,

one supervised by the likes of my brother,

Luke Skywalker, and Sir Micholas Mouse,

instead of thy reliably robotic incarnation

of Zorro in shades bedecked with a Nazi

war helmet and some twinkling lights

in thy heartless, hollow chest.

Plastic to plastic, dust to dust.

The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.

And in the event that thou hast bribed

thy way into heaven, as we suspect must

be the case in this cosmos unfair and unjust,

we have only one thing left to say, and that’s:

Have a nice day.

Amen, in the name of advanced 

extraterrestrial technology.

(The rest of the mourners dutifully intone, “Amen,” and the streamlined casket containing the remains of the Dark Lord Vader is shot at light speed into some unseen omnivorous black hole, the next best thing to heaven.)

Dedicated to the Memory of Sir Lou Reed and My Wife’s Grandmother, both of whom left the stage yesterday.  The poem is in no way an attempt to equate them with George Lucas’s nefarious sadomasochistic creation.  But since it’s about a funeral, I figured they must have inspired it somehow; besides, I was going to write about them anyway, but they got pre-empted by a blip on the radar screen.




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