‘Sas good a time as any to affect
An appearance that may quicken this site.
We have no reservations, and the table
Is not set, for more dire endeavors,
Like bottle bottoms of Manischewitz,
Vow and vie for the rare currency of
My attention. Could this be confused with
Softness t’wards My Shell? Perhaps it will. She
Wrote with the ghost, never owned up, ‘cept to
Status shield with proportionality:
“It was less than fifty-fifty. Promise!
More like the sum of one to one hundred!”
I shall now return to my absence, but
Carry on watching the Malkins finger and
Dig their holy (and wholly glorious) holes.
‘Tis a brittle, long limb to tarry on.
To wit, for those drawn by sweet carrion:
They will fall victim to evil self-contrived.
Thus ends act four, I may return in five.