Carthage: Dear Johnny,

September 12, 2003

I hear you wrote good songs
And I'm sorry that you've stopped
Now I'll never get to write to you
In my celebrity writing workshop

Now I won't see you play concerts
Or jam live on MTV
Because the wake of nine-eleven
Has swept you out to sea

Sure, I don't own your albums
But I hear they're kickass noise
And I've always talked them up
To get in with indie boys

I wish I'd known you better
But I guess it's not too late
To call up my friend Maggie
And request a Cash mixtape.

Posted by didofoot at September 12, 2003 02:09 PM

Dear John,

You were a comic master
In drama you were no slouch
I always figured you'd be done in
By some accident with a couch

Allen and Matt would argue
You were funnier than Farley
I still thought you'd be the Peter Tosh
To Chris's slapstick Bob Marley

ABC has lost a genius
Laughs are coming heaven's way
You can room with female angels there
'Cause St. Peter believes you're gay

So chin up, Mr. Roper
Janet, Chrissy, please don't cry
Jack Tripper's cooking breakfast now
In the Regal Beagle in the sky

Posted by: sean at September 12, 2003 04:17 PM

bested again. damn you, sean.

Posted by: holohan at September 12, 2003 05:32 PM

(and I thought I was the only one who wrote an elegy for the man/the character)

Elegy for Jack Tripper
By Justin Frahm

I dreamed a sultry night, with tawdry Brenda the Human Blender
Would be the cutthroat machinations, of your too soon mortal surrender

Or nay perhaps, would it arrive as immolation most profane
Whilst spit-taking regal beagle brandy through a candle�s open flame

Or trodden �neath the mythic weight of your false Texan brother Bart
Whose doppelganger, breathed to life, came in the night to steal your heart

Santa Monica sits a quiet vigil,
All the beaches closing early
�I�ll miss that little homo� cry Misters,
Angelino, Roper, and Furley.

Posted by: Frahm at September 17, 2003 02:43 PM