I could not clear this year without cheer-
ing on 
our erstwhile, forgotten 
villain turned hero, 
turned demon hunter,
turned bus driver,
turned time lord,
turned adventurer:
Trevor Stains of the Knightsbridge Plains.

A hereditary title,
he oft complains, that doesn’t explain
his complex chains to
the aristocratical world
which he politely
disdains,
Trevor grew up and grew out of the refrains
of his voluminous wealth,
his balance contains a staggering amount!

He washed his hands of the whole affair,
no relying on blood for his glorious future,
he chose villainy,
we all know, 
though found no successes, 
a million schemes and a thousand distresses,
our Trevor is as random
as the rhyming nature of this pome,
it ebbs and it flows 
from turn to turn,
and Trevor made home
at the top of a rock,
a mountain he climbed
where he tried to take stock,
of his deeds and his greeds
and his wants and his longings,
what he felt were his riches
were merely belonging
to a place that took heeds
of his self and his needs.

Time spent in a jungle,
a wilderness respite,
though technically a forgot
from the man up on high,
that yes is the man creating this pome, 
or should I say tome,
about our blustery temporal tangler,
who can choose when to live,
the beginning of time,
or the end of forgiveness,
no moment is safe
from his mechanical legs,
though having said this,
the question that begs,
is will I stick to a style,
when jamming these wiles,
these miles of syllables, I pile and I pile,
into paragraphs crooked and unsure of themselves,
no the best way to honour,
our Trevor Trevor,
is to be clever,
and sever
the laws of poetry forever,
be as free and as winding
as this half robot man,
who exists and persists
when this experiment untwists.

For Trevor is real,
he has been from the start,
a glimpse into a man,
with gigantic heart
but no real direction
or place to impart,
just a lot of mistakes
and misunderstanding, take heart,
that we are all a form of Trevor,
throughout all of minutes,
though sometimes hours pass
and within its long stretches we
yearn for change overs,
and difference and comfort,
and paradoxical leftovers,
for the nature of being
is as weird as the page
and the fiction of truth
is the same as the stage
of life and eternity,
a very long time,
and much like this pome,
and Trevor in his prime,
he gave a long nod to me and my fingers,
he knew he was safe,
though the worry still lingered,
that once I finished he would expire
with the rest of the pomes,
but they are etched in perpetuity,
this digital home,
and finally I reach the part of the end,
raise your glasses to Trevor, a friend 
on the mend, a man and a character,
a fighter, a stand in, a joke and 
a barrister, no, the last one made up
because I cannot stop,
giving Trevor Stains, 
of the Knightsbridge Plains,
new adventures
to the very last drop.