Since Robert's absence, I've been sitting on his favorite rock at night, coming up with the type 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!
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!