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In a peculiar puny town nestled in western Massachusetts,
There lives an enchanted mansion in the Wilbraham woods,
Hidden in the hills away from the eastern city's pollutants,
Where the creme de la creme masquerades in cowled hoods.

Around the mansion there lives but only one kind of tree:
The birch, whose bark blends with the light,
Which bounces off the blanche of branching silvery,
Sea of living wooden towers to create a mystical sight. 

The chalet chateau is decorated with an arched colonnade,  
Made of mahogany and ivory to match the tudor style,
And a balcony carefully balances upon the columned facade,
Where a man in antebellum garb greets his guests with a wink and smile.

"Welcome to Wayfare Manor!" The Gatsby-esque man will yodel,
To the socialites that under him pass,
Through a fanlit door whose talking doorknocker counts the total,
Number of visitors who tap-tap the knocker's brass.

For to enter this door is a journey in itself,
Which each traveler wittingly makes,
Chauffeured by the owner whose blood is that of Elf,
Who can guide his guests where no other can take.

The elven man performs what he calls anachronistic necromancy,
As he can summon not who or what has died,
But when and where his wonder may find some fun and fancy,
For the people who happily pay for the ride.

Inside the mansion's ground level there is but a single room,
Draped in viridian and vermillion curtains,
A ballroom floor where the man pulls from the tomb,
Of time a when which the wealthy guests aren't certain.

When all the guests have entered the undecorated open area,
Ronan will descend from a spiral staircase,
And the room will fill with brief hysteria,
For as he steps, history appears as the present is erased.

Today he brought them to 1844,
A victorian decorum decorated with portraits of who,
Once lived and some appear on the dancing floor,
And a piano played by Liszt performing Hungarian Rhapsody number 2. 

Men in top hats with curtailed coats and women in gowns which melt to the ground,
Spin like dreidels beneath massive chandeliers,
As flames scorching in oaken sconces flicker in its crystals, which hang above the sound,
Of the affluent festival to invite the new arrival of yet another year. 

For to celebrate yet another spin around the sun,
The guests have chosen to, instead of moving forward,
Pay an elf to go back in time to whence a when was done,
And celebrate the future by feeling how to move beforeward.
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