The Final Shot

The shooting’s still a mystery, alas.
The man for whom the nation stood agape,
And focused on the plotting taking shape,
Is recently interred.  The very pass
That he had been receiving on the set,
When loaded up and riding over lines
As if the page had bred with hidden mines
That threatened here to blow if he had met
A word without his eviler approach,
Is one of many reasons he was good,
And very good, at acting if he would,
At anytime, do bad.  I wouldn’t broach
The subject of his Ewing deep in hell,
But sit and briefly miss him for a spell.