Thank you, la rue, here's hoping forty three treats us kindly

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Soliloquy choruses, forgotten epiphanies,
And assurety of an existential tease
Gazing back in eye of an unveiled being
Are but a few of the favorite leaves

Enshrined in familiar feathered wings
Casting shadows of forgotten operated things
That of sorrows and unlived tomorrows
A wandering traveller in resting reverie sings

'Fore turned from fortune wheel earned
Their faces red then summer yellow yearned
The equinox come for harvest begun
Of the little watcher's hand in mushroom urn

Below an evening sky littered by swarmy clouds
The troubled shroomy boy looks up and harks aloud
"Where's muh fuckin tribe you glowy twinkling shits?
Don't make me go inside!" he shouts, shaking his fists

With cloud control on his side himself he reminds
There's no need for stinky meteor a la gists
Imparting impending doom upon the forest
For the trees of terrifying lulled minds

Fruiting forth from each of the cardinal four
In score of source spheres from which light will pour
Upon yesod mound made root of new tree
Treading ineffible path of quintessential lore

Where on the lid of the empty vessel repository
For ever the second chapter of the story
I found the summer chilly spooder queen
Being the stalking beatified butler bade boring