Humous hath nary

The rage of an old english mans dragon breath.

Nor can it contend with the

Garlic wench’s malodorous halitosis.

And a seemingly dreary summer cloud does drip

Autumn purple from the sky.

Seasons change

Blurring, banishing, surging, canopies of rain forests—

I envision them in winter, for some reason,

And an arctic tropical coconut drops in the hard crust of aged old snow,

Pushing a puff in all directions like it landed in powdered sugar,

Right next

To

A

Penguins

Webbed foot.