Maxwell Gotch is always whinging when surprise wingsuits / swoop in to save fraternal foes, prolonging his pursuits. / Hatwell’s patently hard head had failed… so this is it? / Unless—why yes!—he’s Beardsley blessed!—one wingsuit for a crit.

Through the MechLeod? Why, the windshield's so thick! / Hatwell could headbutt, or Wealwell be sick... / Me? I've my ruses to shorten long shots—/ just lift up your visor real quick for Longspot!

I have a few poems in progress (big “white whale” projects I’ve been trying to get right for some time) but would never want those to get in the way of things you might like to see…

“What’s past is prologue, protégé, / my time is yours eterne. / I seized the scrap to build your days, / I lived—so it’s your turn.”

In the winter she flies south to Copacabana, / checks in under “Beedo Meemaw.” / At her ripe old age, she’s our favorite ba-nana— / steal the moon and our hearts, Beedo Meemaw.

For how to sing it: the lyrics should kind of fit into the middle section of "Fairytale of New York"—that's the rhythm I had in mind writing this.

The patent Gotch son rowdiness finds form in rigid study / that concentrates upon unique extremities of body. / Their endless game of gotcha, unlike Wealwell, cannot stand— / so Hatwell's head must meet its end to Maxwell's clenchèd hand.

On high we go! With a poem already present as the beating heart of this season, I could only expand—and so I borrowed from the original lines, attributing them each to a character’s journey, and added more of their (now lived-out) adventurer’s aspirations from there. Cloudward, Ho! And happy finale!

"Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Sanders" — THE ROBOT'S NAME IS SANDY AND HAS A BELT SANDER, I STILL HAVEN'T RULED IT OUT

The walls between our worlds are always thinnest at true vex, / so too's the fourth, so summon forth a player from the next. / "Do something!" is the call he heeds, he'll have Olethra's back— / from out the sky, no one knows why, the helpful head of Zac!

A poem! But pray fall not soft into rhymes— / this punishing verse bids Sam answer for crimes, / for games so unwinnable naught shall avail. / At least here muddled meter might lead to the grail.

Comfrey's rounds of rope-a-dope near ran short at Katur; / though Mordecestershire was bested, sure was close in Zephyr lore. / But Monty writes the books and knows how vex and vim turn south, / and if Comfrey still can't see it, she should watch her effing mouth.

From vampires to vamps, he makes his trade; / as Aguefort yields to aglets, passion wins; / no more spats with Sam, just spats of suede / as Brennan finds leeway in moccasins.

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