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.