Places dwindle and vanish from the mind.
The genius of a place, locally made,
is taken over globally, defined,
then by joined forces wiped out and unmade.
The Traverse' Cyrano and Knives in Hens,
Theatre Workshop and, why not, Phil Kay,
put forth, before the rise of stand-up dens,
the peak creative spirit of the day.
Since Klitemnestra's Bairns on Calton Hill
were followed by Jim Rose's bunch of freaks,
the Fringe has turned a stand-up-driven mill
that grinds laughter into cash where art reeks.
It's better so. Nothing is meant to last.
Without regrets, I belong to the past.