I always say there is no such thing as bad work, only unfinished work.

I’m not sure if that’s true but I came across this lyric from the unfinished play Death The Musical, which caught my eye and made me smile.

It has a beautiful melody by John Du Prez, which probably deserves a less ironic lyric.

In my usual way I have given the lyrics a polish.   Is it still unfinished?

In the play we had a character called Diva attending the funeral of a close friend and here she imagines her own death…

 

On The Day A Diva Dies

 

The whole world holds its breath tonight

Around the planet news is flying

Hold the front page, hush the stage

Diva’s dying!

We interrupt your world tonight

The sad word is just coming through

Apparently it’s really true

She’s left us, she’s bereft us

Whatever will we do?

 

On the day a Diva dies

The birds fall silent in the trees

Journalists fall to their knees

Everybody grieves

Nobody believes

A Diva can just die.

 

Can it be even true the evening news man said

The world can go on turning now that Diva’s dead?

The Broadway lights will all shut down

A silence falls in New York town

All Government suspended

A Diva’s life has ended.

 

Three days my body lies in State

While the beautiful and great

Around the block all stand and wait

To see me lying there.

Oprah will officiate

While Deepak Choprah mourns my fate

And tells us to appreciate

The gifts I came to share.

 

On the day a Diva dies

The skies will rain quite magically

And people will look tragically

As off in her coffin she slowly trundles by.

Sir Elton John will sing along

A brand new Paul McCartney song

And of course our own dear Cher

Will wear some brand new hair.

 

And there is me at center stage

Not even looking half my age

All peaceful while emotions rage,

But who will sing my final prayer?

Not Madonna I don’t want her there,

Joni is too bony and Barbara won’t dare

And what in heaven’s name,

Am I going to wear?

Maybe Tom Ford, Prada,

Surely something white?

Valentino’s good, but Chanel is best at night

And hell I’ll need some make up

I don’t want to look a fright.

 

And then what sort of casket?

It must be something cute,

One doesn’t want to look

Just like a basket of old fruit.

Metallic coffins are quite in

Perhaps bronze or even tin?

Or maybe, this could be a first,

There’s plenty of room in ‘em,

Have something in aluminum

Designed by Damien Hirst.

 

Which Funeral Director will they pick?

Scorsese perhaps or Coppola

They might do the trick.

Mike Nichols is too busy

Spielberg’s far too slow

Tarantino is too dizzy

Maybe Clint Eastwood

Would be very good

For this particular show

 

On the day a Diva dies

A pale white horse with empty boots

Awaits the final gun salutes

In Arlington I’m underground

Where only the finest of

Dead people can be found.

 

They’ll carve a marble statuette

So everybody can regret

And fans and pilgrims can give thanks

And make donations from their banks

For the life I led.

They’ll sell my albums and CD’s

And glossy new biographies

And boxes of my DVD’s

So they’ll remember me.

And though I never went to Mass

They’ll paint my portrait in stained glass

And maybe, though it may seem quaint,

One can but hope, perhaps the Pope will make me a Saint.

 

Too far?  Perhaps, considering the naughty life I led.

But thank heavens Fred

It’s only you, not me, who’s lying dead.

 

 

c) Eric Idle July 2013

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