On a breezy June afternoon
A bird swinging on a wire pretends to swoon.
Snow rolls over on his back, content and well-fed,
Two flies boff each other over Simba’s forehead.
As the clouds disappear into the blue void,
I sit here, and, ponder if I should avoid
Rushing headlong, always devoid of a plan
From the fire, straight into the frying pan.
The thought becomes a slave to the grind,
I stop, before I begin to lose my mind.
But, often old habits are kicked too late,
So, perhaps I should simply aid the bait to its fate.