In April did the Avon Bard appear,
    and in that self-same month did he depart
whilst sun shone bright with ever-fulsome sneer
    and Springtime dallied chill as boggler's art.
Today, we halt anon and dream awhile
    to make our vulgar speeches simular,
frail trump'ries though they prove to be, and smile
    in epilogue to his craft insular.
Thus, here below, presented in array,
    art twenty iterations tender-writ
that if poor William wert alive today,
    he would belike have penned of his own wit.

Anyway* by Arthur Salm is a work of genius. I could read it a gajillion times.¹ I read it in Barnes & Noble, and I LOL'd a LOT. People probably thought I was a moron.

I wrote this back when my Mythgard class was talking about C. S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Not sure how good it is, but hey, you can let me know.