What will I do when you’re dead, Woody Allen,
Oh, what will I do when you’re dead?
To know that no more will your films so delight me,
Oh what will we do when you’re dead?
What bright young scamp shows us hope to succeed you?
What bright young thing hopes to be
The one that provides us with joy in our mis’ry?
What can the young today see?
How will our children start pict’ring New York
Without your sad bittersweet hand?
Sons upon sons don’t know naught of the Apple
’Cept what’s on your celluloid, man!
What will I do when I know we’ve exhausted
Our stores of your magical brain?
Rewatch and rewatch till my mind’s gone entir’ly?
No, man cannot live in such pain.
Perhaps you’ll continue to film up in heaven,
Or whatever place you will go.
You’ll cast and revise and re-script on a cloud
And mail us our due yearly show.
Oh what will I do when you’re dead, Woody Allen?
I’m sorry my po’m’s so non-serious.
From this you can see that your loss will cut deeply
And thoughts like that make me delirious.
Please, Woody, take care, you’re life is most precious
To us, your weak, desperate fans.
We’ve got nothing else in our lives that fulfills us
As much as only you can.