Festivities kick off this afternoon,
the party to dwarf all such galas past.
They'll howl beneath the urgent, waxing moon,
and make love on the waxen, melting grass.
They'll take turns at the speaker's podium
to voice their fair hurrahs and last goodbyes,
and shoot their guns into the tumbling skies-
wee thanes beneath the shoe of kingdom come.
But all the crowing, bluffs, and shaking fists
shall ne'er hold off their portion, and for this,
I'll not attend the circus at the end,
but pause in solitude, remembering friends.
And thus, in recollection of those passed,
I'll make peace with mortality, at last.