Ah, the bittersweet flame of lite is flickering out at last. So much, so many deeds left undone! So many sights left unseen! So many bashes left unabashed!

Ronald Reagan, where are you? My sight is growing dim. When I cross to the other side, will I meet your friendly spirit there? Or is it true what they say--that within the ruined shambles of your earthly coil, your spirit wanders still?

Ollie North! Are you there? Of all the kindred souls that passed in the night, yours was the most precious to me, for it was you, dear Ollie, who kept me from being called the slimiest grinning sleazebag on Earth.

Gorbachev, I didn't forget you, my Byelorussian buddy. I hear that you may plan to visit fair Harvard. If so, please lay a poppy on my mouldering grave. And let's get one thing straight for the record: that thing with Raisa was just a lark. I didn't mean anything by it.

But nothing shall I regret more than not being able to continue my service to the Crimson ed page, and to its readers. I think I shall never be quite so touched as when the editorial chairman tearfully took me in his arms and said, "You can't die, Rutger! How will we fill those 20 inches of space on Saturday's page?"

Ah, but it's true. And I'm sorry to be leaving my cherished friends. Perhaps, when you think of me, you could hum a few bars of the Rutger Furry Fan Club Anthem--do you still remember? It seems so many years ago; but I can still hear the fife and drums wafting through the early morning sunshine:

My baby, she knows what I dig,

A drinkin' an' a-strummin

An-a drivin' my rig.

But when I set my guitar down,

And go out for some fun,

There's just one thing that makes me big,

That's reading Rutger, son.

Rutger, Rutger, could run real far,

Stood about 10 feet high.

Rutger, Rutger, kilt a bar,

A fun-lovin' kind of a guy.

And that, dear reader, rhymes with goodbye.

Rutger Fury, formerly a living creature, was national political writer for the National Inquirer and a one-time friend of Jeffrey J. Wise.