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The Last Sing-Along

(To the tune of “Poor Jud is Dead“)

Poor Mitch is dead, poor Mitch Miller’s dead.
His hour is up, he’s sung his final song.
The mourners chant a dirge,
And perhaps he has the urge,
But being dead, he cannot sing along.

Poor Mitch is dead, now let the tears be shed.
He’s gone where men wear neatly-trimmed goatees,
Where a little bouncing ball
Brings delight to one and all,
And every song is U.S. Grade A cheese.

Poor Mitch is dead, his heirs aren’t in the red.
His peppy pop arrangements made a pile.
He liked his music droll
And he hated rock and roll,
For progress, well, it wasn’t Mitch’s style.

Poor Mitch is dead, so let the news be spread.
It’s decades since he aired his final show.
And folks are saying, “Wow!
Golly, jeepers, holy cow!
We thought he’d kicked the bucket long ago!”



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