The grass baked liked wheat in the smoldering afternoon.
Tea and eats would be served soon.
In the meantime, to get but a mild breeze,
It is the Sun God we must appease.

A small sacrifice is in order.
Some measly living (or barely living) thing would please her.
Ah! – a cricket.
Catch him – he’s our breeze ticket.

Out came the magnifying glass –
Beyond death’s depriving door quickly shall he pass.
Eagerly, we explored his roasted guts
And even contemplated enjoying him with some nuts.

No. This crisped corpse we shall not eat,
For he is most precious to the Maker of Heat.
Your Highness, accept our humble offering –
Right now, it’s all we can bring.

Guys, just take a feel of that breeze!
Sorry, cricket – your life had to cease.