Walt Whitman would have loved Barry and his singing. For my own consolation, let me write out some lines from the end of Song of Myself, sharing imagining Barry's voice as the great Narrator:

I too am not a bit tamed . . . . I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
É
I depart as air . . . . I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in the eddies and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
and filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you.