Now then, without further introduction, the Ode to BOBI:
Ode to B.O.B.I.
on the occasion of his birthday two and twenty
this sixteenth day of Tenmonth
in 2005 the Year of our Lord.
Beyond the lakes and the wide, wide river
in the North, in the cold
of the snowy, frozen plains
within the walls of a spacious abode
together there live three Men.
Dane is the second
the third is Another
but then there is the One,
and that One is BOBI
he is the One of whom we sing.
Gather now, and still your noises
Silence your iPods, turn off your toyses
and listen to the tale of this One.
We speak the name of Bee-Oh-Bee-Aye
with reverence, with love of a kind
for he has chosen us as the vessels
for the magic that he pours
from his brightly blazing mind.
He speaks to us of the world of wizards and of emus
and of drunken nightly mirth
of Alan Rickman and Target
of the Universe and its rebirth.
His brilliant blue eyes alight
at the mention of Lord Vader
His hands and feet point directly
at a shapely, promising bubble-invader
... who primly nods and prances by
obliviously passing up
a chance at bliss unequalled
at the hands of this young suitor.
For BOBI's single quest
condoned by Gods above
is to be finally dealt a hand
that wins the game of Love.
He throws his net and hopes, and longs
and it catches, time to time
on a likely find
then comes loose and drifts again.
Night after night, day after day
he casts far and wide.
Ever the net turns up empty
ever the cupboard is bare
ever the cold desert of BOBI's bed
calls out for a soft pink soul
to warm it, and the bountiful heart that lives there.
A Spinning Girl sits at her wheel
spinning away her days
and weaving a wondrous web on her loom
of storied threads and nostalgic ways.
One day her web catches and holds
this wandering Lancelot, this BOBI lad
He tickles her fancy
and pokes at her mind
and awakens the sleeping Muse.
They spar and they duel
on Middle Earth's fields
sharing fireside secrets by email
A battle of wits
and of hearts has begun
In his company, she finds
respite and sustenance for life's long travail.
In dreams he mounts his shaggy steed
A guanaco? Alpaca? No indeed!
No less than mighty Llama-kind
for the russet knight-errant
when he courts his maiden fair.
(an ominous low chord sounds, and holds for entire last stanza)
But in night's dark hour
her fears and doubts
denounce his affections
she tosses her web to the wind
and BOBI flies free of her charms
to wander the world once more
heavy-hearted, yet happier, somehow.
(A chorus of soft girls' voices)
: O sweet wanderer
never fear, never doubt
for love will come to you. :
What now for this knight, this knower of souls
this delver, this digger, this miner of the unkown?
This speaker of languages both real and imagined
This master of sword and of bow?
This coaxer of melodies from cello's strings
And singer of harmonies low?
BOBI will rant, and wax philosophical
about fecal bullets, and domos, and jelly
miniskirts, afros, and schooldays bygone
no topic too sacred, no topic immune.
He finds solace in asoul who lives close to his heart,
awaiting the day when One comes to his side
and climbs on Life's coaster with him
together to laugh on the dips in the ride.
Song VII: Finale
(a great and rousing chorus erupts)
Let those who are worthy and those who are strong
who've come from afar and traveled long
gather now, to BOBI and all flock about
to sing his praises in a glorious shout:
"No other so mighty, No other so true!
BOBI’s tremendous, through and through.
BOBI Majestic, we really love you!"