There we all stay in aligned lines,
Here, see us play in pined tines,
Where we wallow in lands mired,
With many-a-bedfellow outside.
Unusual display of cloudy disgust,
A near similarity of humanly musth.
As dust settles onto overcast lands,
Wishing not for a deluge of sands,
Now not parched; a lot, like the Nile,
See then afar off, an elephant's file,
Ambling away? Join this our sandpile.
©etjacques
E