But soft! the windborne Paraclete gives voice to ancient claims/the open circuit now complete, 12 hunters taking aim
Barkers change their dialects, the crowd responds in kind/by tempest toss’d, the clocks now lost, and all our ways of time
Shorn of logic’s fevered grace and having played its hand/the last motif, expressing grief and milk, removes the stand
From the courthouse we imagined, in the fields beyond the dell/where patterns weep and druids leap through visions jointly held
A shadow felt, a cloud inferred, an echo that’s received/by systems lost, by age interred, while self-aware machines
Vouchsafe their faith in trade winds we can no longer feel/we limp until we are well met by fate’s predictive wheel
But soft! the inborn parasite feeds on the skin that’s left/scholars clutching monographs, take refuge in the clefts
That were revealed when stars aligned, with signatures affixed/to warrants, affidavits, and the president’s kill list
Solutions gratefully proclaimed by those few still upright/hands are raised and toasts are made—all praise to mercy’s night
The targets chosen are notated on stained vellum sheets/the scars reprise the standard lies and fill the empty streets
Making change for Saracens, and helping Picts adapt/stacking piles of Finnegans, pulling lodgers from the mast
Though the hours are quite long and the pay less than ideal/the gods allows us to retain those crumbs that we can steal
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