Raindrops remain inscrutable among sloppy clouds.
Glatisants, other gibbous beasts hesitate to ululate.
When wet, colluded porcupines stir up their magic.
Submitted offerings, whether nonce or countable,
Spoiled by venal motives, or as innocent as mud,
Astonishingly, create the similar tautophonies.
For now, when lightening illuminates their dyspeptic
Serfs, those bound by ancient, esurient vows, pale greed,
Few hope of guilelessly pulling out trophy-like quills.
Yet, loopy retainers mistake mirrors for enchantments,
Prematurely free imprisoned others, snigger too much.
They never profit from their prickly masters’ effluvium.
