Fianna and THE HAT

The Hat

a hat of 
the season
appeared from
thin air. little
fianna clare
could barely
stare and
sniff at that
pointed thing,
just sitting there
reeking of 
spider cakes,
eye of newt, the
biting aromas 
of very nasty, 
lumpy, soups.

For the Record,
This day came in sunny with increasing clouds. The nights are cooler, the season of drawing in, finally begins.

All hands horrified by the news and begging for PEACE.