With apologies to Betjeman:
The great charade is over now;
What will we do, and whence and how
Bestir ourselves? O, take a bow,
Thou man from Queens!
We’ll miss you, though we won’t know why.
Sharply awake at three, we’ll try
To think: What stirred me? By and by
The lurid scenes
You played for us will come to mind;
Dismayed in wee-hours dark, we’ll find
We needed you; the spotless mind
Is not worth beans.