autumn into winter grimly fades I sit beneath this skeletal tree that reaches with clutching, gnarlèd bough t'wards a cold and distant morning sun spy the pantomime of twisted shades that writhe and perform fell mummery condemned to their reel by broken vow their danse macabre will never be done I can't help but smile; I sip my Möet too glad to make melancholy poet my laugh startles the carrion crow I'll ne'er be a Lovecraft or a Poe and the spirits hear my joyous peal turn their eyes on me but caper on driven by the wail of some dread flute a carved thigh-bone of a giant man O, bemoan the anguish that you feel! -who linger still when you should be gone ensnared by some devil's pleasant suit to please the whim of demented Pan I can't help but smile; I sip my wine who could mourn on a morning so fine? the crow decries as it soars aloft I'll ne'er be a Poe or a Lovecraft