“Friday’s are inheritable freaky, aren’t they? Hence the term, Freaky Friday, because you’ll never know, what kinks the weekend may bring…” Gun Roswell’

The early hours of the morning
Came, with a dire warning
The powers that be, were none too happy
And sending down, weather oh so crappy
Which was their way of utter kind of revenge
On to the lowly populous down on the ground now clenched
There was no sunshine to be seen
Alas also, no stormy clouds, on the skies kind of pristine
Only an eerie, soggy, all compassing shroud
Could be felt, across the people, the land, and all around
The visibility next to none
The kids, gloomy, loosing their fun
What kind of living could this be
Since there was nothing or no one to be seen
Yielding to their horrific fate
The dwellers down below resorted to prays
Trying their all to sooth down the tall
For several long hours of wait
The gods above, started to hesitate
Maybe then had been way to harsh
For the people living on the soggy marsh
Waving their hands of power
The fog, the mist, the eerie, was soon devoured
By a low glowing ball like thing
The light, which softly stated to sing
The surroundings soon starting to change
Into something more pleasant with less pain
The people below now thanking the gods above

A lesson with great price learnt
As the message “Never again, take you weather gods for granted”, was sent