The living endure our inquiry, but not you, ye whom thru

decease roams free. We put queries to all you left behind, to seek out what whilst living troubled your weary mind. But still your thoughts remain a mystery, your clues thus choose to evade using no reason, no logic, but rhyme -and I quiddle no longer upon your Poetry, I am the quidnunc who figured you foolish, a fiddler fond of wasting time.