George Wendt to Heaven when he died.
He was talented and that can't be denied.
George Wendt to a bar where everybody knew his name.
Now that he's dead, Hollywood will never be the same.
George Wendt to Heaven and the angels started to cheer.
But his friends, family and fans are sad and shedding tears.
George gave a terrific performance in "Fletch" back in 1985.
I speak for everybody when I say I wish that he was still alive.
George Wendt to Heaven and everybody said goodbye to him.
When it came to his fans, his performances pleased all of them.
[Dedicated to George Wendt (1948-2025) who died on May 20, 2025]
Stretch, hold, sketch, fetch, etch, told fletch gold.
Paint ink quaint, wait, kink, late link.
PAINT INK QUAINT, WAIT, KINK, LATE LINK.
STRETCH, HOLD, SKETCH, FETCH, ETCH, TOLD,
FLETCH GOLD.
Flow, brush, know glow, grow, rush, slow woe.
See, look, gee took me, shook free book.
STRETCH, HOLD,, SKETCH, FETCH, ETCH, TOLD,
FLETCH GOLD.
Hang art slang yang, sprang dart sang heart.
Oh boy of the fifties born and bred,
London's burning while Nero plays
His strings of chord while Christians bled.
Aah, memories of the good old days.
Lions consumed the prisoner wretch,
Encircled by thousands roaring down.
Tarred and stricken as to fletch,
And blasphemy adorns the Sacred Crown.
Oh this bleeding Heart on Golgotha's mound
Scant bone protruding from the tabernacle
Where days before shared He the cenacle,
Now cries of derision and mockery resound.
Oh boy of the sixties shredded and torn,
Fed and mutilated with wicked scorn.
Left to wander and roam amidst lamps
Of dull mellow yellow and begging with tramps.
Hope a food for the soul and spirit,
Clinging to beam of light's pure joy.
The longing and yearning to dis-inherit
Yet gain the Christ and swear His foy.
One morning, sometime in the Fall,
we went up to our cottage on the lake,
and I put on my camoflauge,
and sharpened my broadheads for the hunt.
My dad and I walked silently through the gray woods,
noting every little barkscrape on the thick trees,
carefully picking our way around brush and ferns.
We found the blind,
a simple affair of branches and logs.
Sitting down, I stretched my bow taut in anticipation,
feeling the plastic fletch on the cold carbon shaft.
A grouse stomped through, a noisy bird,
and my heart started to beat;
I thought it was a deer,
but relaxed infinitely when I daw the fat bird.
Not ten minutes later,
the call of a whooping crane shook me from my thoughts,
and I saw a little figure creeping towards us.
A bobcat, small and lithe,
crept past us,
slinking low to the ground,
the little stump-for-a-tail- held low,
and I smiled at the little feline,
though it didn't smile back.
My feet were cold,
we went back to the truck without a sound.
I love hunting with Daddy.