Skly climbed up himself
To see what he would find,
Upon his upper shelf
Were banners left behind
By those who had laid claim
To little bits of Skly
And some who had the aim
Of taking the whole pie.
Flags fluttered in his hair
And poked his peaceful mind,
So Skly, with greatest care,
Piled hair from eyes to spine
As kindling for the fire
He lit, loosed and let run
As his peak’s flaming spire
To burn till flags were done.
Skly’s hair may no more grow
But poppies have en masse,
Wherever his mind goes
He takes a match and gas.