Most musical of mourners, weep again!

What do I Get? That’s what the Buzzcocks asked. Well, Pete, me old mate. 63. That’s what you get.

Three score years and three for this particular Homo Sapien. Too young; much too young.

As another Shelley wrote on the death of a Mr Keats:

I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
       Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears
       Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
       And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
       To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
       And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
       Died Adonais; till the Future dares
       Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!