Flingon's Wild Ride

The morning of Luminescent Glory
Perry Flingon flew his Spleener
into the mouth of a
falsetto Batwing Zephyr.
The trick he said was to
avoid rotationary cogs,
filed snarling teeth
that gnash indiscriminately.
A week ere the lovely event
he, P, kissed goodbye
his wife and twelve imminent children,
opting for obscurity in
a dust storm, maneuvering
haphazardly, employing a
hi-tech randomizer bought
with sponsor ducats.

Forcasted easily by forwarded
invert-vorti, the
hologramic Earl Finkel concluded
impending and disagreeable contact
with the Zephyr early in
the Luminescent Glory.
Families would surely
hold their warm peas for
a satisfying conclusion,
praying the Batwing would
conduct itself in a
tasteful manner—no Zephyr
had yet, and hopes of
a peaceful
peaflinging lay under a
thick gloom of sour
Nimbostratus.

This thing was
a done deal,
as donkey caped P. Flingon knew,
and no quantity of
trickery would save his giblets.
Still the Spleener performed
as designed and
with the flip engaged,
it engorged on carbon slick
then sprang to attention and flew.
Ahead the Zephyr bleated
out a loathsome challenge
that outraced the wind.

In pursuing years they remember
even holding their tongues
and pinching knees,
recalling the sacrifice of
P. Flingon and his reckless
decay in the mouth of
a penultimate Batwing Zephyr.
They will rejoice and chuck
their peas, they fling
fruit to the wind and
entwining fingers they sing out
to Flingon descendants,
the sacrificial family
to the encroaching Zephyrs,
the Batwings ever starving
for more in the season of
the Luminescent Glory.