What, ho! The tossled firebrand storms!
Caped and battle-ready at the precipice
of stairs, two furry fiends aflank, eyes bulging,
battle cries curdling on morning breath!—

And lo, how they tumble into musty
valleys, that corrugated death with sweet
incense of pancakes circling above; and
roars of Autobots in melee at their rear—

and dooms of bitter snows banking
in the yard; and ever thrusting with the
Power Sword to down the interminable
Pillowman!—

Ah, but when that one man
whose bloody nose has not deterred the fight
should fall like Caesar by a reprobate
and false ally, his father of realities—

—doomed to humanity again—

How can we not forget what smiles
he wrought that day, and laughter;
what Grecian courage, what Roman
wile in every tact and Nerf gun fire?

How can we soon forget his service
in the mire of musts and miseries,
in the din of doings and dreams,
in the Last Battle of the Imagination?