I’ve only known you for 10 minutes but I'd prefer you didn’t die just yet   You’re on a horse, your hands are tied and there’s a rope around your neck      One of them’s good, the other ones bad and you’re no oil painting   But you play the part of the holy rouge   Dance along like the desert’s your stage   Your soul possessed by the ghost of Stanislavski      Eli Wallach      Through his silver tooth, before he shoots he speaks their epitaph   Loose scripts and unsynced lips and he still makes us laugh   Like when he wears his gun while he’s in the bath      Disbeliever: But for all of your laughter, you’re going crazy like some guy like he’s your zen master…   Darren: I know      But inspiration’s rare as gold, hidden in an unmarked grave   You find a hero where you least expect it   Mine’s been in over 50 films      And I’d have thought by now   Somebody would have written a book about him