At nine the child was bound for fame.
By twelve, New York had heard his name.
And soon the world would know his smile.
His songs made magic, style on style.
He played for those who longed to hear
The echoes of a bygone year.
Cole, Gershwin, also Duke and Kern -
Four music greats, so much to learn.
His cabaret was polished gold ~
With wit that’s warm and charm that’s bold,
With melodies both rich and fleet,
Forever smooth, forever sweet.
His fingers traced a lover’s sigh,
A champagne laugh, a moonlit sky.
Each melody—a whispered chance
To waltz through time in old romance
Rodgers, Porter, and Gershwin’s dreams
Were spun like silk in candle gleams,
No note too small, no phrase too slight —
He gave them all his soul each night.
From Broadway smiles to jazz-lit tears,
He sang the songs, from bygone years . . .
Most at Carlyle’s, fans would rally,
He wove chords from Tin Pan Alley.
Stride hands that danced, a voice that swayed,
To Ellington and Waller’s shade.
Dear, Bobby at the Café’s glow
Your voice still hums in whispers low.
In New York’s jazz community
Your music sings eternally.
The city’s heartbeat, smooth and bright,
Forever playing through the night.
Yes, Bobby, still your echoes rise—
A toast, a note that never dies.
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