Photo from creative commons
 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. 

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