Militarized Man: Eight

  A venerable cook wont to muse on a crate
   would stare wistfully into April rain
  on a frowsy dock with a wrist watch - his mate
  and tip his hat to all he would and did attain.
   He was an erstwhile gunny with an amiable fate,
  now a sage, all that is Man, and a genteel swain.
 
  Most days he'd amble into work in the afternoon
 at two,
  extinguishing a cigarette with a polished boot.
 He exuded punctuality - tools at ready like new,
 and sported a chef's coat like a three-piece suit.

 He'd stand erect over his line and render his mise,
 "I'm an honorable working man for the Hyatt."
 He could do it all with legerdemain, finesse, and ease.
 "Damn it, nothin's ready - I don't buy it.
 How's my sauce, my prep, my cheese?''

 Pots and pans were rattlin'
 blazing a trail through his station,
 customers, service, and the crew were battlin',
 tickets lined up for cookery and creation.
  Forward march with a cadence -
  feet movin' furtively and dancin'.

   He gave behests aloud with force,
   razing lads to build them up,
   a militarized man, an eight, and a horse
   steadfast at every morn and every sup.

   Who was this man little tolerant for guff and static?
   He was a venerable esrtwhile gunny -
   so he was and so named Bob Kirkpatrick.