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!