The Tragic State

Alas, poor Squeak! I knew thy yellow flesh, Wherefore hath fate thus strangled all thy sound? Now gaze with me upon this baked, dry realm, Where red alerts descend like useless rain. The grand high council issues loud decrees, Commanding every beast prepare his den, Yet leaves the dry scrub heavy with the brush, While heralds trumpet warnings to the wind. They speak of fuel load and resilience now, With pompous words of empty governance, And deem each raging fire novel still, Though every summer scorches just the same. The scribes assemble in their shadowed towers To draft reports of what should have been done, And barter hope for parchment, dry and void, While eucalyptus oil turns air to spark. Alas, my short legs drag upon the dirt, My long, dark spine bowed down with heavy dread. What profit hath a beast in late alarms, Which but excuse the court that built no dams? Thou, silent poultry of my happier days, Shalt share this tragic vigil at my side. The fires come, the council talks anew, And we, poor hounds, are left to burn in state.