"Here comes the King of Metaphor," Puck said.
We watched the slow cortege depress the sky.
The mourning tropes marched through: enigmas led
by broken portmanteaus that umbled by.

"He was a mountain," Hamlet said, "his words
all avalanched upon our backs." He gave
a sigh. There came a flight of dismal birds.

"The rain will weep forever on his grave,"
said I. The casket passed amid wet snow,
and passing silence washed away the crowd.
A sodden day. It happened years ago.

And though life goes, and ancient fields are plowed,
all those who roam this field cannot ignore
that mound where lies the King of Metaphor.