Dear, Dear old Larry

Playing the part how well he adapts
Bellowing prose and foolhardy slaps
Strutting around quoting Shakespeare and Shaw
Considering himself with inconceivable awe
Tramping the boards the way thespians do
Egotistically believing all the compliments are true
Dressed scant in a robe, I Claudius, the man
Etonian narcissus, his own greatest fan
As the end is here, he modestly milks the praise
Then drags himself back for the curtain to raise
So many to please, such a burden to carry
For the last great player, dear, dear old Larry.