The Flying Squirrels' Wailing Lamentations

Frozen outside,
on roughly coarse crags,
the vanilla king rode
on the back of a coal
colored panther
flinging Melipona bees
at dark orchid pods
until ice cream rained
over every velvety carpet
that stubbornly refused
to stimulate consumption.

Acorns, meanwhile, ceased
issuing from oaks and hickory
nuts eschewed to be chewed
with inanimate reincarnation,
leaving a whole generation
of starving, skinny, crazed
squirrels to offer their bodies
as asphalt roadkill sacrifices
to the great nut god -
for whose favor they pined
throughout the unfalling
autumn failing in 2008.

The god of nuts, cruelly
and remorselessly
denied sustenance
to flying squirrels,
relegating them to a fate
Boris and Natasha never
succeeded to inflict on Rocky.

"What's a few squirrels,"
pundits deadpanned in the Post,
as the entire east coast
became an acorn free zone.

The god of nuts bellowed
bellicose guffaws, as he schemed
in league with the vanilla king,
and the risen-cream's rain
suffocated each bank's acorn
retirement stash squirreled away.

The flying squirrels' wailing
lamentations fell on deaf ears,
echoing through empty safes'
depositories; for redemption,
the sole solution
offered by the vanilla king
sanctioned doling out more
bees to pollinate the orchids
believing that increased vanilla
wealth would end up trickling
down to feed the squirrels.