Sending lame Pat limping back to his damp thatch on my land
His loyal hound Patch of whom he is unduly fond uncurls when he walks in
Frost having him half rock
Rocks up to the table and once seated throws off his boots and socks
Boxed fire dying even in prime; even in life’s midst, in death’s confines
Little to me the demeaning conference of titles
Tiring and trite, the trifles which unite
Us are turned to cudgels which smite us
That light so bright and wondrous marks rather the last of its kind
So wave goodbye.
Alchemisland 
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