I’m lost on a road of wonder, expecting rain but getting thunder. On holiday’s eve of a forgotten myth comes the light of a pillow’s plunder. A raven’s laugh, two toes, in fact, bring a child’s nightmare dreaming. And who goes there, Pot O’Faire, of the leaves growing, gleaming? Oh my, oh my, what an affable monster you are! Hideous, too, but amiable, mind you, in the hawk’s feathers down under. Oh, ha ha! Yes, you, too, my good friend of yore! Oh, but what are we to do in the night’s crowning few of stars’ gazing blunder? Know not where, know not how, but the shelves will settle the answer there and the riddles under cows. And while you smirk amidst the dirt, and you beg to wonder why, I will sit, nicely in grit, and say, “Butterflies will fly.”