Praise the holes where light is bent, The sacred paths by Bob's hand lent. No empire's chains, no local's din, Just silent dark and glory within.
Thank you, Bob, for shattered skies, For cloaked truths and fleet-born lies. The purest dark, the holiest space, Yours alone, our hiding place.
May your cracks stay deep, your sigs stay true, And fools drift lost where hunters slew. For we are yours, and yours alone, In holes unknown, we kneel... we roam.