Here they come- again.
To these I’m used.
Acts of ingratitude-
May I call them?
I shower them
With the purest of waters;
Choking smoke they return.
My children they are!
My duty it is- to cover them,
To protect them and
Not expect returns.
But, warn them, I must,
For my tunic won’t last long
Over their smug heads.
Wear and tear- have reached
This poor old covering-
The only one I have and offer-
They call it Ozone.
Time is running out.
Celebrating their way
To the End,
Some reach early via
The gruesome route of mishaps;
The rest take the slow route.
Will realization dawn soon?
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