If you pay your attention to the sky,
You might see things missed by a fly.
White fluffy clouds sometimes turn black,
It’s the cloud burners and their sneak attack.
They sneak up with their tinderbox,
Strike some sparks with their flinty rocks.
They set the cotton candy clouds on fire
For reasons unknown, maybe it’s ire.
The clouds burn up and blacken all the way,
Then they cry for the rest of the day.
That’s the description of why it rains.
The product of clouds and their grisly pains.
When they stop crying is when they die,
Crisp and cinder gone from the sky.