So the crown is tipped from my head
And the placement at the banquet removed.
Now the bum’s rush and the usher’s flout.
The pedants and baldheads have spoken.
You who dwell sunward
Where squishy softness has its little season
Herein the starry twilight perpetual
Where glittering ghosts breathe in and out of the gloom
And gaze always outward,
Frost is forever.