Pish posh ritual, the sage rages with a twist of the
curled lip and disdain to match the discoloring of
rain that those drops were sort of ordained to bring
about. Pish posh too this ordainment, the curled lip
spouts out a sprightly venom.
Nothing complains in the forest: the discoloring goes
unnoticed, un-pish-poshed by the sage of the forest,
the unrepentant cloud going about its meandering ways
dropping drops of discolorment wherever it deems fit
to add a dash of discolor.
Discord of discolor in an otherwise corporatised forest
with its sanitized signs telling you the spot where it
is o-so-grand to see the giraffe pee and where it is that
the bear will no longer grunt at you with the same level
of filial warmth reserved for its next of kin.
So watch out for the bear and watch out too for the paw
print, the graze, the punt, the loll and the woof. Pish
posh goes the cloud once again, and as it drifts away
the mask of its frivolous disdain wears thinner, the
menace in its belly sounds like it means business.