Not before or again
Will we see the like
Of that Indian, English, Irishman
Who held the name of Spike.

He came into the limelight
As a quarter of the Goons.
But the pressures of the writing,
Made him lose his mind too soon.

His poetry was brilliant.
Serious or daft.
He could hold his audience.
They frowned with him or laughed.

For Spike, you see was worried
For the world on which we live.
He had much more than comedy
In opinions he could give.

But he made his name in laughter.
In his writing you see that still,
For written on his gravestone is,
'I told you I was ill.'

01/21/2008