I saw the bindweed curl about your tomb
Whereon I set a rose, now short of breath,
And marked the similarity of death
Between your chance to live, its time to bloom.
For though your maker overflowed your hours
Yet still upon your blossom climbed the ****;
You noticed but did nothing; thus its seed
Cast round the earth, and choked your budding flowers.
    But brazen trumpets round its conquering green
    This bindweed blossom, in the rose's stead;
    Just so, before you took this rosy bed
    You sometimes woke and showed what might have been.
But now your chance is gone as chances go.
I've learned your lesson. Let me find the ***.

How sweet the name of Cthulhu sounds
In raving mystics' screams!
It drives them mad, enflames their brains,
And troubles all their dreams.

It brings insanity and dread
Into the world of men,
This world which once seemed safe and sane
Shall not make sense again.

We gaze upon thy face more dread
Than any watchful dragon;
And sing the eternal hymn to thee,
Ia ia Cthulhu fhtagn.

Cthulhu! my dead yet sleeping king,
Thy cults shall be restored,
Thy tomb shall rise to air again,
Just, r'lyeh, r'lyeh, Lord.

Weak is our twisted woodland dance
And cold our campfires cursed,
But when the stars shall rise aright,
We shall be eaten first.

The fall will unwind
the shrivelling day,
the works of my mind
the fall will unwind,
the key left behind
and longing for May:
the fall will unwind
the shrivelling day.

Welcome to the adult world!
Feel a clumsy failing fool.
Living is a tricky game,
Harder than they tell at school.

Every day beyond your means:
Hide it from the public view.
All around must never guess
What it is they're hiding too.

Conquer bedrooms, conquer boardrooms,
Build your mountain to the sky.
Have a résumé to die for:
When you get it, then you die.

Yet the children play in dirt,
Heedless of a pointless star:
"Never ask us what we'll be:
Know that we already are."

Is this my home ground?
We'd lived here, it's true.
But what I have found
is this, my home ground,
is town all around
full of empty of you.
Is this my home ground?
We'd lived here. It's true.

Remember all the old familiar faces?
Helvetica's the nicest of the lot.
Gill Sans and Johnston take the second places;
It seems as though the serif has been shot.
Verdana has its own intrinsic glories;
The fairest text that ever left my desk
Was set in these-- for essays or for stories.
But using them for sonnets?  That's grotesque.
   And gravestones are a special case as well:
   A mortal lack of serif fonts would be
   A certain kind of typographic hell
   With Comic Sans for all eternity.
In death, the Roman lettering is best.
May flights of serifs sing thee to thy rest.

I have no patron saint. But if I should
I doubt that Doubting Thomas would be him.
Though well he worked with what he understood,
I cannot emulate my eponym:
too squeamish still to press your ****** palms,
too cowardly to bear the cross you bore.
too blind to fall and sing believing psalms.
With other saints called Thomas, all the more.
   But then there's Thomas Cantilupe's career,
   So concrete: he was born in 1218,
   was chancellor of Oxford for a year,
   gave countless counsellings to king and queen
and years of selfless service to his see;
and lives today recalled by God, and me.