Welcome, my friends, to bustling New York -
The port of lore, the door to more,
Abounding, of course, in scores of stores
And words and Fords and public transport.
Adored by humans of every sort,
Inviting all to come and explore.
Now meet a small boy whose name is George.
There's not much his parents can't afford.
His father has appeared within the pages of Forbes -
A mover and a shaker, a business force.
George was given a toy as a reward
For doing quite well on his school report.
This toy was special, a foreign import,
A cube with a door and a string, in short,
Perfect for George, since he wasn't the sort
To socialize much or play in any sport.
What no one knew, no one but George
Was that inside the cube lived an orb -
An intelligent ball of light named Zorb,
Who could float, fly, flash and even morph
Into any shape, to the amusement of George,
Released by George pulling the cord.
On the cube was printed a single word.
"What is Gorb?," asked George,
"That's my planetary source," claimed Zorb.
This orb couldn't speak verbs or any words.
Instead he blinked the thoughts toward George.
Anytime George felt disturbed, perturbed or ignored,
Like the dark day his parents got divorced,
Zorb would lovingly blink his support.
"Who needs a sword," thought George,
"Or even the hammer of Thor,
When I have a superb orb?"
So here's the report
If you can absorb it,
When a problem came forth,
George would just "orb" it.