Rob

Friends, Ugandans, countrymen, lend me your toes;

I come to spit at Rob, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their antennae;

So let it be with Rob. The maniacal Bob

Hath told you Rob was dark:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Rob answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Bob and the rest–

For Bob is a sober man;

So are they all, all sober men–

Come I to speak in Rob’s funeral.

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