Break the silence of the night with agony's light
and double rhyme in double time chutes and ladders;
fall through dreams with lollipop screams, am I not right?
Up again toilet-bound old men with full bladders
thinking of something TS Eliot once said
about April's cruelty, or hope and despair.
Why did I let those accolades go to my head?
Why wasn't I absorbed in a Blob of old fear
like everyone else with polter ghosts under their beds --
where I stupidly went to do battle one night
expecting something out of Rod Serling's twee dreads
only to find dust bunnies and nothing to fight.
By accident I lit the bed on fire -- pyro!
A long life ahead for an un-aging tyro.