With many, many thanks to complynn, who told us all about “Enter SHIFT” for returns within stanzas (and thereby stopped my growling).

Cousin Fergus

(after Who Goes With Fergus? by William Butler Yeats)

Who will go drive with Fergus now?
That’s what I’d like to know about it.

I could ask him, but he’s always
half in the bag, and the stench

knocks you back a ways. He lives
down at the end of that crooked

road, in a split-level he stole from
his aunt. He has filled it with his

leavings, the odd little dolls he
whittles, tries to give away to

children, whose sensible mothers
pull them closer, keep their hands

from reaching, reaching toward
Fergus, his dolls, his beseechings.

Who will go drive with Fergus now?
All he has left is a motor scooter,

and it can’t climb hills very well.
There are things he needs, and

I suppose I’ll drive him, though
his aunt was my own mother,

and every time I see that stolen
house, it splits my heart in two.