A glance, over the shoulder,
The breeze, as sweet dew on the lips,
Time, like the wear on a boulder,
Hands, widely spread, planted on the hips.
The breeze becomes a gale,
Clouds succumb to the light of day,
Night makes the colors pale,
And yet, here he will stay.
Debris, like scalpels of a cosmic surgeon,
Slicing alike into flesh and trunk,
Humble a man to feeling sturgeon,
Might you think the man is drunk?
Who is this demon, defying Mother,
Holding metal rods and baskets?
Is he sane, or mentally another,
Or is he just in search of caskets?
The answer, you see, is all too clear,
Just take your seat and you'll be fine.
Watch the news and drink a beer.
Hurricane Hunter's on Channel nine.
