A salute to you sir, from one human to another. The marching of time is very rarely kind and I hope your passing was painless. But any bowing is reserved for the soldiers of the street, wartorn and frostbitten, still battling devils put there by the crown; no grand old age gotten, nor servants plumping cushions to lay their body down. No top brass reunions for the regiments of the damned, just shop doorway pillows and a shaking, outstretched hand. So I salute you sir, without an ounce of disrespect, but my heart is with the powerless, the brokendown, shipwrecked. Yours, in hope of better, kinder days when love and respect goes both ways.