Before the genesis of the jumbling in the deepest section of the clouds,
Will always be a loud, irritating, queer sound in the depth of my mind that I'm never able to interpret on time.
If I could wish for a gift definitely would I have wished for a gift of reading the mind of mother nature,

For she's never accurately predicted, she could show up in the 15s,
She could visit in the late 20's.
But she comes knocking violently on our doors, with a wide, wicked smile on her invisible face.
Always an unwanted guest,
who behaves like an ancient tax collector for tribute to his majesty,
Questioning every body of female description, if all is still well.


If she could just jumble the clouds with respect,
All bodies of female description would have ululated,
Why then does she have to take their appetites along with her as she leaves?
Why then does she, after leaving them sulking in...