By Diane

There are singers who sing sweetly and some that like to crow.
There are singers who are bright and others who do it low.
All of them are good for something.
But Bobby has it all—that je ne sais quoi thing.

He can be the softest of purrs, then the hardest growl.
He's the red hot lava flow of a volcano exploding,
And the smooth, black obsidian after the heat subsides.
He's the big bang at the beginning of the universe,
Its soft whimper at the end.

He's immediate, right there, so real,
But far away . . . ethereal.
He's a gale force wind that makes sailors go "Eeek!"
And the sweet morning mist that caresses your cheek.
He's chills up and down your spine,
Then a warm bear hug at a quarter to nine.

When he beckons, go along.
Your will is no match for his,
When he wields his mighty song.
Take his elevator ride to heaven,
    But don't press Down.
        You'll never want to come back,
            After you hear his dulcet sound.

© 2007 Linda D. Twersky