Fickle Beast of Turning

Such bouts of indecision wrack you.

I see thine desolate regime burn indignant against other's of your vein.

Their stability mocks thee.

Though I see thine whimsical wrath protrude yet. 

How in one swift account can thou press infernos and ice upon mankind?

At once thou art a cool draught and a searing rage. 

I once tried to predict thine mania and was scorned

in bitter respite to a tragedy of frost not flame.

Warmly you soothed mine soul and danced playfully through the morn,

but thine black face gritted teeth against all mine expectation 

and left me frozen in a snow forged expanse.

What wrath have I ever brought to thee? 

My indignance is not only mine own

but also of all who live in thy glorious chamber. 

Perhaps I alone could not 'suade thee to stability

but surly the cry of millions should find a cushion in thine heart!

A sultry fiddle string am I but among a chorus of gloried angels

how canst thou still resist such a plea?

O Fickle Beast of Turning, shallt thou always boast of thine indifference?

Mine apparel shall always be dictated by the hope of thee

by the soft subtlety of thine voice,

but please thee to once hear the request of thine citizens, 

and frickin' make up your mind Georgia Weather.