Some claim the measure of the man
Lies in something tangible and firm;
His stature, his strength,
His fame, his fortune.
But I, for one, find none of these,
To be a fitting yardstick.
Rather do I measure Harry’s worth
By the stories we have shared,
Comedies and tragedies,
Dramas and histories
Yarns of adventures gone awry.
Be they Joyous or humble,
Painful or proud,
Of good times or of Ill,
I have found in these shared sagas,
His humanity,
Well hidden by gruff temperament,
Masked by mumbled words,
Infused with a certain spirit,
And well punctuated by profanity.
It is not despite these flaws
But rather more because of them,
That his tales of love and loss,
Of dangers, of trials,
Of hardships, of misadventures,
Resonate within my soul
And will remain forever with me.
Godspeed my old friend.
Aroil in Pain 