With much respect (and sheer awe), allow me to reprint the short but sweet Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Errol Flynn's Not Dead":
He grabs the rope with withered hands,
Swings through the air and softly lands;
Girt with a silver sword he stands.
That rotting man is Errol Flynn;
He bares a grey and toothless grin,
And like a zombie eats my skin.