You have to idle constantly; it increases your odds of a chance meeting while he s out having his fun.
Since he shows up when you least expect it.
But not always.
Sometimes there is no playful greeting (or prank),
But instead a firm embrace from behind,
Smelling like earth and mischief,
Keeping you together.
As his ward, he seems to feel (minimally) responsible for your well-being.
(He assures you guardian angels were on short order.)
Despite Goodfellow connotations, he doesn t spout bunkum about forgiveness,
Or suggest prayer.
Those that break the skin and form the bruises, though,
You hear them complain of food going mysteriously bad,
Or nasty falls over nothing.
Depending on the crime (or temperament of goblins).
Pinned in the mandible of night terrors, he grips tight and spirits you away,
To pass time instead with him and nebulous Oberon,
Who regales you with tales of mermaids and cherubs arrows and ludicrous lovers.
So you will waste your day and tarry in the fields,
And day-dream, even if miserable rain turns the ground to muck.
Nothing is wasted while waiting for Puck.