The tome is a time bomb
No longer an innocent conflagration
But a fully flowered concern.
And a certain violence
Has visited the domain.
The terrain trembles in terror.
We huddle like malign masses.
I call through the smoke
Of burning Autumn Leaves
To the world we built for children
But have run out of time to rectify.
So now let’s turn our attention
Away from our feet
Where they have always been,
Solidly on the ground,
And commence with spinning webs
Made from sugar
And hang them like bunting
On the 4th of July
While waiting for dinner to arrive.