Literary Diarrhoea

Twas a kite, a bird.

A bird of the kite kind,

Take this to your mind,

A lot of life you will find.

The kite had caught a fish,

A fish of any kind,

Never mind,

Flying high with this fish,

In its mouth balanced,

In its heart excitement.

The forgotten pains,

In dreams, multiplied gains.

But soon the kite was prey,

To the opportunist, inevitable.

An eagle, even from distance,

Is as dangerous and terrible.

The fish, the kite held firm,

And floated with pace,

But nature will confirm,

Often, eagle won the race.

And so with much effort,

The eagle, the kite avoided,

The chase took its toll,

But the fish was still whole,

And provided courage, unfounded.

Down the trees and up the clouds,

The kite travelled, with its fishy baggage,

But the eagle drew close, not much effort.

And then upon colliding with a branch,

The fish, the kite stumbled,

And falling onto the forrest,

The kite cried, a meal wasted!

But turning back, found the eagle,

But the eagle had drifted.

The eagle had drifted.

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