The gates of Faerie are eroding—
tubby centaurs play their iPods,
vampires lurk in midnight chat rooms
and Queen Mab herself no longer
swears by ice and air but posts
her curses on her Facebook page.
The magic holding up the moon
is fading, but there's none to notice—
all are heads-down in their hovels,
texting. No one dances 'round
the faerie ring, or sings the lays.
The Hunters of the Horn want X-Box.
So the enchantments loosen
'til old men with waist-long beards
emerge from bondage, top hats tattered
after centuries ensorcelled,
roam the asphalt lost in wonder
that an empire which once wrought
these mighty buildings, dams and roads
has weakened to a wii twilight
and left behind no more of note
than endless dryads twittering.