Ozzy was not a brilliant composer or lyricist, but he had something much more important - that which is not learned, not acquired, not bought, not hired, not imitated, but you simply possess it or not - the charisma and weight of presence.
And, of course, the voice that cannot be copied, strange and unique like himself. A voice that combined a scream and a whine. The scream for impossible freedom and the whine of an immature child for more games. Much more of an artist than a musician.
And the well-deserved privilege of passing away, grandly enthroned by the entire heavy guild as the oldest voice of metal, an inspiration to generations and madly loved by millions, was the most touching, kind and beautiful farewell in music.
The best thing that could have happened to him in the twilight of his burning candle.
The bad boy with a childish face, lively and kind eyes until the end, scurrying for the /before/last mischief, got rid of the torment of the body only in his ninth life.
The bad boy that the girls wanted to run away with. The bad boy that the parents didn't want their good children to play with.
The bad boy that the "awesome students" they wanted to look alike, but they couldn't afford it.
The bad boy went somewhere without leaving.
Because he weighed and will weigh, doomed to stay forever here and in the present time...