Between mountains of blue florets

Forty seven degrees to the south

Up inside the only tree house in view

Behind curls of climbing jasmine,

There, behold a boy, and his half done puzzle.

An extraordinary dream, this kid had.

It runs in the tribe, craziness and a nip bit of animated spirit.

Which made them the bottom of the social pyramid.

Craziness is forbidden.

Someday, he'd flip it all over, the pyramid.

This boy thought.

If only for the sake of his tribe and his home,

The Loompaland.



Then he walked a thousand miles

Learnt a few hundred tricks off humans

Popped up a couple new solutions by his kitchen sink

Stolen yolks of those gruesome whifflebirds

Forcibly removed hooves of manticores

Sawed down albatross beaks

Sewn a drapery made of unicorn hair

Dug out ribs of living hippos,

And collected fangs of extinct urban vipers.

Under nights of silent stars he played with the ingredients.

For seasons for years the wheels of his brain kept reeling until one evening

He stopped.

He had come up with a series of formulas.

Utmost blood-freezing formulas.

Laughter boiled inside his head.

He succeeded.



A plan was unfolding itself in his mind

A blazing yearning to stand over the world

And with his people behind him, peering down the tipped pyramid.

An army of cocoa zombies, all on knees,

Under the spell of his sizzling formula.

Cocoa Age would be his era.



Thus on the fourth of July night,

He leaded the tribe.

Off into the forests, out into the human world.

Humans are wacky as walnuts.

They never read the message of a brewing trouble

Never pay trifle attention even to the smallest whiff of warning.

So it was easy slipping past.

Every bend and every corner was a blind spot.

All human eyes were on the exploding fireworks.

His tribe was, contrarily, fast.

They leaped right off into the new place,

Banging around building up a new home.

A confined space doesn't sit well with them,

But adaptability, too, runs in the tribe.



It was a big hit to the whole nation

The day he launched his brand.

Poor old moths were all drawn to his flame

Swooned before his feet, carving, cheering.

His formulas worked just perfect and

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pyramid began to sway

Lines drawn were stepped over

Those from below were hiking skywards

Those from above were slipping down to the pyramid bottom,

Oblivious, unknowing.



Good old boy, what splendid glow he brought upon his lineage.

What sweet success!

His face was splashed all across the nation's papers,

His brand all across the chatty mouths of those old geezers,

Pictures of his factory dominated the TV news.

Such taste of victory, albeit

He never breathed a word about his clan.

The working hands instead of machines.

The workers in his factory.

The tipped pyramid, no human ever notices.

Failure to share the stage with his tribe, not one voices a miff.



And there he made a mark on history, this Wonka boy.

A genius from the pyramid bottom.

