The Good Year, we will call it
All these shuffles and that stutter
Preludes and after-words and worlds
Ponder short at the post-crypts
These smudge-ed tombstones unfinished
Broken chisel deposited, flung asunder
The Good Year, they shall call it
Bit by bit the odds and ends will fit
Just so, and comedy be made
A feast, a wedding, of fairy tale make
Of hoarish toads and twisted roads
My prince, my prince will come…then run.
