FOR TERRY PRATCHETT
We come to Skull at last. And Skull’s a smile.
Rewarmed next day, each tragedy’s a farce.
Kings fall, we all fall down. Prat-fall. On arse.
Perfectly timed. Poised, elegant. With style.
Rude noise. Best laughter comes from quiet rage
channeled and weaponized. Always about
something beyond the joke. He didn’t shout
wry quiet almost whisper. Rueful sage.
Some things are never funny. In each book
reduced their number. With a jest would name
each foolish monster, when those monsters came
from life and dream. Crush with a knowing look.
His comic timing still his last best friend
Prepared it earlier. Told us. The End.