And Gad's laff will become mute as we choose to turn away

Ha!   the Gad’s fits an’ hits  the roof
with a  hammer  trough  the  stiff  staff;
An’  as  their hard  rain hammers  down,
with a thunder- thump,
I wonder…does  they  hear  our  laughter
rise ‘gainst  those  spears?
An   I wonder …does they  weep
when  this  hard weather cracks,
For  from here,  those  flaunting  rainbow’s  dress
-so vainly- to  impress .

An’ when the ragin’ rain falls;
where, tell me, where  are they gad’s?
Gadding about  -no doubt-
dancing  in a soft  swirling haze
Sprinkling  those ghosts  of his,
with false tears from an empty bucketful of  fears.

And  when th’  hard  venus-thrill,
Rises  from  a sharp twist  to a  high cum,
No doubt  the gad’s  will  lofty  laff,
as  our digs are so  deep  pricked.
Despite that we, with time
and a soft  nursing  sent,
lift  up  our soft hatched,
in th’ hope of recompense.

No doubt, we  will face
through the scraping of  rain,  gads  soft  rift.
For  how he  drops a  hard  drum beat
On  such a  sloppy turf  above,
That’s  laced  around  us
With a squeeze along  this  this  stiff  pole,
That with slight  tongues  that  slip and  whip softly
To  then cut   deftly to the quick
An' leave   nought  but bitter  hurts
now dwelling  in hill ridden  humps.
But  I know   th’ gads  laff,  will become  mute,
as  we choose  to walk away.

© adh 2016