Will

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.