BOB whose forefathers, stout-limbed and deep-rooted,
Clothed the white Alps (or Taiwan’s jungled hills?),
Born when with dusty noise of screws and drills
Torso and limbs were deftly constituted,
Your social acumen is undisputed,
For once, I hear, the conversation slowed
Till, you being theme, it briskly overflowed,
And if you didn’t save that party, who did?
Your wooden rigor touches us like fire.
We know of those who with a flawless stroke
Master what some spend lifeblood to acquire
—That festive elegance which with sure flair
Sweeps past poor bumblers lacking tale or joke.
They also socialize who sit and stare.