Ode to a Fool, with apologies to Shakespeare.

Yorik!
My buddy!
My old, scraggledy-assed buddy!
How odd to be holding his head.
I knew him as well as anybody could, I suppose.  He was a deeply repressed, emotionally closed-off man (which was odd, given his line of work).
But we did have fun together when I was a kid.  Telling jokes.  The man could tell a joke.
Wrassling.  (Although I didn't like it when he kissed me on the mouth).
And now he's dead.
Skin and flesh gone; bones remain.
Like the chicken thigh I had for dinner last night.
He's dead, Horatio.
I wish I was too.

Note to reader:  The last line is an attempt to convey Hamlet's state of mind, not my own.  Although I am a bit depressed that the head of my Uncle Sam sculpture came off in my hand half an hour ago.

The rest of the story, if you will, is here ...

To quote Tony Hayward:  "Crikeys.  What's that gonna do to the stock price?"