FOR those of us of a certain age,
An icon has just left the stage.
So join us as our caps we doff
To bold Sir Jim, he’s shuffled off.
What can you say about this bloke?
National treasure, bit of a joke.
Private man, sartorial fright,
Marathon runner, Papal knight.
Mensa member, OBE,
Confidante of royalty.
Rolls Royce driver, problem sorter,
DJ, wrestler, hospital porter.
On Jim’ll Fix It and Top of the Pops,
In eyeball-searing track suit tops.
With gnomic gobbets of Yorkshire Zen,
“Clunk click, you see, now then, now then.”
His charity efforts made top whack,
Accountants just could not keep track.
Of the millions raised to pay the bills,
At “Jimmy’s” and Stoke Mandeville.
And in his day Jim was a star,
Chunky jewellery, big cigar.
On the telly in sleeveless vest,
Granting people’s small requests.
And mostly we were all quite fond
Of this eccentric platinum blond.
Indeed it was difficult to dislike,
This caring, sharing, giving Tyke.
Just as he lived, Jim died, alone,
So carve it proudly on his stone.
Those wise words shared with all his pals,