This is one of those days
That children weep and cry.
It appears uncouth underneath this blue sky.
So I left to go isolate myself against the dissarray
And ended up in my own mound of petulant clay.

Here I lied until the water fell through.
And began to flood my humble abode.
I had to journey again to some place astride my back a massive load.
The mound decayed. I was sad: It was bijou.
So I fled again. To my asylum: Adieu.

Returned to the children. They still lied there, but arid.
They had become humble and relaxed.
I asked them how they had achieved their ******.
They spoke of how, they were visited by an aphid.
It was such a strange idea. So very rigid.

''There look! Look! Stands our saviour.''
They awed and praised across the land.
As if she healed them from tips of her hand.
And so I observed and analayzed her behaviour.
And then I realised the scene I abhor.

You stood there with the minion on your arm.
I blatantly stared. Awkward. Uncomfortable. No resonance.
And so, like the children, I wept at the zephyr of your fragrance.
A siren's song, evident as an alarm.
To be so vindictive as to once again place the firearm.