A phone book

Ian

Dear Ian, a mere ghost

Of what used to be a friend,

To you I dedicate this toast,

For your friends you did defend.

Those you barely knew

Were still protected by your fury,

You never went where the wind blew,

Never blindly agreed with the jury.

One's blind without you

Serving as a protective shield

- too much light, one has no clue,

One's running circles in a cornfield.