We ran low on grass and leaves
Yes, to eat and lose our brains.
We are sculptors, the artists
Who mold minds beholden
To dried tubers, leftover from
The smithy winter, gnawed
Treadsweet atop a hike of
Lowdown proportions,
Seen with an upturned glance,
Where atop their mountainrange
A light pinkpurple sky waning orange
To ******* heights greeting with despair
And thrusting up a torch to the air
With idyllic and winsome divine,
An event, this epic and christening,
Illustrated to every relief and contour
By a prompted member of our party,
A respectable integral to the species,
To roar behind with vigor and flatulence
And such stench to twist the nose,
Laughing in his hand chocolate,
Warning of the flags raised in the distance.
A moment of premonitory silence.