I'll have a Pickel AND my Motorcycle

Floods.

I am hit with floods of what has come to pass. 

Gone. Gone is he from my view. My life. Gone from these shores. 

To a destination of undetermined mystery.

To where he is and I shall one day be, too.

Gone along to a land of peanuts and big bands and loads of sand.

Never far away, you're here to stay. In my veins, my soul,

and every cheese I ever knew.

I'll be looking at the moon.....but I'll be seeing you.

Always you.

Always will I be walking your way.

From this May, until my dying day.

Command would you, nothing less.

All I can say, Grandpa, is that I'm doing my best.

Enough. Always told me I was more than enough.

Sentimental, as you were tough.

With might you challenged us all to rise to any occasion.

To you I dedicate this Old Style, Roberto.

To you I sing this next song. 

On and on, we will get along, cause you taught us all to be so strong.

To a Pickel.

To a Motorcycle.

To eloquent belligerence and many more re-tellings of all that you were.

Are to me. To us. 

Forever.

xxooo

R.I.P. R.E.P. 

1925-2012