The first has since faded with a golden tint.
The second was concerned with the U.S. mint.
The third stands proud with its squeaky-proof walls.
The fourth was overshadowed by the approaching fall.
(The fifth didn't happen in the usual sense. It's best to ignore at the listmaker's expense.)
The sixth year was longest, but came and went so fast.
It has left an impression that is sure to last.
The seventh remains impressively weird,
Filled with owls and horseflies and invisible beards.
The eighth was definitely not long enough,
It cannot be defined as just "riddles and stuff.".
The ninth will forever stand on its own
As the year when the light of the Wenis was shone.
The tenth year saw fit to amaze and confuse.
It's as poignant and passable as a scar or a bruise.
The eleventh, like a dream, felt impossibly right.
'Twas lazy and pleasant; condensed to one night.
The twelfth, it seems, was a year well-spent.
How many can fit inside one little tent?
It was epic and powerful but not very warm.
Having characteristics of a great thunderstorm.
On the thirteenth year, I regarded all these
Whilst munching on whales made from sharp cheddar cheese.
I found it so strange yet relaxing. So hard to define.
It wasn't smooth nor perplexing. Neither dull nor divine.
The thirteenth year was delightful at best.
But how does it stand apart from rest?
While abundantly fun and without a regret,
The thirteenth year was the worst year yet.
