What's 1.1.2.3.5.8 to chaos
is evil to this benignity.
This one's mostly twisted
in a very divine way.
Fattest balls of snow
On greenest pastures
For psychedelic tear drops.
No more habit of creature.
Not smoked clouds in spoonfuls of blue sky
Nor monsoon cream of grey
You're not going to rain on this one
Not today, no way.