A pleasant scent wafts through the air,
as the summer passes by without a care.


Don't trust the man in the suit,
he is a man of ill repute.

His placid disposition,
hides a rancid composition.

The grin on his features,
as he walks among the creatures.

Like the grin of a red fox,
as it hears the chicken's squawk.

Like the gleam of the brown bear,
as it corners the scared hare.

He's not one to be trusted,
its violence for which he's lusted.

He's the strings of the puppet,
and he'll watch your hopes plummet.

As your chances decompose,
he'll be laughing under your nose.


A pungent stench reeks through the air,
as fall approaches, yet no one cares.