I cried when Prince died,

and sobbed when I saw the gut-wrenching news about Tony.

And when General Powell passed on, I hung my head.

Nearly all my heroes are dead.

Maybe I’m too old or too proud to prop any man up,

higher than a man should be,

but only a few remain,

those who hold my wonder and stir excitement in my veins.

Today, I sat feet away from a man they call Poppa Bill,

and listened as he answered earnest questions from earnest hearts,

but his presence did not stir any of my own.

He’s just a man, as any other.