Now That Buddy's Passed Away
Say of him that he let the hooks of destiny lie about him sweetly.
Tell that his wallet smelled of honeysuckle,
How, when he was home,
The moonlight wrote itself upon the hardwood floor in parables,
The dog next door barked in the key of F-sharp minor,
And the deer coursed over the backyard fence clothed in feathers
plucked from angels' wings.
Say of him that all that touched him deeply
was also deeply touched by him.
Tell that the sinkers on his lines were made of gold,
His soul of molten jade,
And that in order to pronounce his name correctly
you have to scatter diamonds.
Say of him that he cannot be told of.
Tell that silence calls his name,
That all of the yesterdays and tomorrows together
will not hold him to account,
And that all the demons of Hell will never be powerful enough
to wake him from his slumber.
by Robert Hampton Burt