Every year the autumn whisper
whistles over hills and vales,
bringing word of fairy dances
and the fair folk lore and tales.
Never resting, pixie feet will dance until the dawn,
rhythmic stepping, twirling, prancing ever on and on.
“Invite the mortals,” they all jeer
but never make it past a sneer.
You’re the first invited in
and never will you leave again.
Accept your fate. Accept your lot.
You’ll keep dancing til you rot.