The letters will be found in the spidery tomb.
The madman laughs aloud. There’ll come a time
When the characters are together in a room
To hear about a codicil or crime.
The swindler knows at last he’ll be arrested,
The drunken baronet falls up the stairs,
The patient women, being sorely tested,
Rebel at last and leave the page in pairs.
Our histories are yet to be arranged.
We like this freedom, though it’s all we’ve got.
There are no drafts, and nothing to be changed.
There are no chapters, and there is no plot.
