To A Distinguished Film-Maker Upon His Sixty-Fifth Birthday

In other galaxy, in other age,
They dwell to whom thine opera appear
More deep than that great space from ear to ear
Within our younglings' skulls who call thee sage.
Thou tellest that the dark side does not pay,
And love is good; while hate, we find, is not.
In thirty years, and thirteen hours of plot,
Thou preachest: one should choose the good guys' way.

Hast moved a generation to its core
With magic light and noble fighting monks;
Hast branded all with plastic robot dreams.
O swish thy sabre; let us have yet more
Of dialogue that resonantly clunks
Betwixt the tinkling of thy laser beams.

Grimbole Pucker