Love poem for Robert

Since Robert's absence, I continue to sit on his favorite rock at night, trying to come up with the kind of poetry that, I like to think, once pleased him, like this from last night:

Nematode

By Harry the Human

Oh brillig was the slithy tove

All mum with crap that he had sold

So on he went, as we are told

A goal in mind, a windy road

A nematode, but I digress

Our subject still a wilderness

Wherein such souls as look askance

At superficial happenstance

Can waddle in the cosmic dance

And ask the question should the chance

Present itself, or even not-

For questions ask their own true selves

Forgiving answers to themselves-

And truth be told I need more rhymes

Not once not twice but three more times!