A sad congregation of Pretenders
Strutted across a summer’s stage
While the silent morning mirror reflected
The lone pretender
Gawking,

Gawping
Into space
In a Feigned Resignation
At Summer’s inevitable End,

*guitar solo*

‘I am not on fire,’ the boy of eleven said.
The Four Firemen of the Apocalypse disagreed,

The Hose of Infinite Squirts
Slaked the source of all powers
But but but the Hug of Infinity
Floated away in a soapy bubble

Towards no end.