. . . a latte grande on the sea between my legs. All around I see the saints. I see the dregs and the byproducts of civilzation enter, exit from stage left; stage right. Then, another monument to the elusive and mysterious Honolulu Harry, the richest man I know. Honolulu Harry, the richest man in this life or the next.
Through the town, sometimes with baggage some without, making a livlihood. Up or down, any direction that you choose. And among the fast foods, strip malls and traffic, there's that name again as plain as day. Then, another monument to the elusive and mysterious Honolulu Harry, the richest man I know. Honolulu Harry, the richest man in this life or the next.
Harry was certainly rich. But it only was money. Very few liked him that much. Now it seems kind of funny.
Just the sound of his name, spoken with respect and reverence that's owed to him, brings to mind beneficence without a peer. And it warms the heart to think of the thousands Harry helped, but not while he was here. Then, another monument to the elusive and mysterious Honolulu Harry, the richest man I know. Honolulu Harry, the richest man in this life or the next.
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ANOTHER SHOT
by Ray Jozwiak