It started with a drop. The drop became a dripple, which wasn’t quite a drop, nor was it a drizzle. The dripple took a while—it was a lazy dripple—but like so many other slow students, it just needed time before it graduated to become a drizzle. This drizzle, the late bloomer, it became a torrential downpour to impress its friends. Afterward, it went all edgy with a lot of thunder and lightning. It was one of those kinds of storms, the kind that ruined picnics just because it could.
‘Twas a hard rain, merciless, cruel to the thatched roofs of Ponyville, raking at them with unseen—but not unfelt—claws made of icy wind. It made timbers creak, both the old and the new, it rattled shutters, caused loose doors to stutter, and made Fluttershy flutter while she cowered beneath her bed. It turned a sinful rabbit into a saint, and a brave bear into a rug.
All over Ponyville, the residents took shelter in their homes. Friends huddled together, shivering at the sound of the wind. Neighbors gathered together to wait out the storm. Cautious, fraidy-ponies hid down in their cellars, while brave, maybe even foolhardy ponies had cautious peeks out their windows.
Everything was fine, save for one foolish colt: he was trapped in the house, he was ready to bolt. Sly Pie, it was said, had no real fear. Sly Pie was nimble, the town agreed that he was quick. This unicorn foal had poor judgment, and his thinking was thick. Sitting still was the worst, being bored was worster. This poor colt was devastated by this edgy cloudburster.
Little Sly Pie was too much like his Daddy, a hot headed unicorn that did battle with baddies. Thinking sly thoughts, contemplating devious endeavours, the colt sat by the window, hating the weather. His sister, Megara, was sprawled out and napping. She made a fine lion-skin rug, so soft and so cuddly. She was perfect for snuggling, perfect for hugging. But if the mood struck her, and you weren’t incredibly quick, she’d snarl, she’d grab ya, and give ya a lick.
The thunder, it crackled, it rattled the house. Maud wasn’t bothered, she just didn’t grouse. With a turn of her head, she looked at her son, being his mother, she dared him to run. She hadn’t learned her lesson, this was Maud’s most dreadful mistake. The quiet afternoon spent writing rock poetry was tossed into the lake.
Bounding for the door, little Sly Pie dodged his mother’s deadly eye lasers—he then avoided his sister, armed with retractable toe razors. But his sister, so lazy, and with his mother a rock, he ran up the wall and leapt over the clock. On the couch, Pebble waved—she knew her brother too well—Octavia raved while Vinyl cast a spell. Alto Clef sat hugging his precious viola, while his father, he snorted, and tossed his granola.
“Don’t you dare!” Octavia shouted, but the colt did dare and worse.
He slipped out the front door, causing the posh mare to curse.
Outside a torrent, he slipped between drops, remaining bone dry with his pronks and his hops. Zooming away, he chortled in defiance, while his family inside, they formed an alliance. Overhead the clouds roiled, that dark edgy creep, but Sly just wasn’t frightened, so out came the “Meep meep!”
The storm was now angry, so furious it was squirting, it launched out a thunderbolt, hankering to do hurting. A face did form, so angry, so grey, it bellowed at Sly Pie while he ran away. It thundered, it bellowed, its curses were cast, but Sly paid no attention, and pronked incredibly fast.
A raspberry blown, his tongue in the breeze was a bright orange ribbon. The storm, incensed, was a thunderous, bloviating, blowhard shit-gibbon. Thunder, it rumbled, and lightning did flash, but fury was useless against Sly Pie’s mad dash. The wind, how it howled, and then began to swirl, and with Sly Pie skipping away, it shrieked like a girl.
A tornado now forming, it huffed and it blew, but Sly Pie, the runner, knew just what to do. Roofs tore away, wind snapped the shutters, poor Applejack’s cows had milkshakes in their udders. An alarm went up, a klaxon was sounded, but Sly Pie the runner, he was not to be hounded. A scowl could be seen on the dreadful storm’s face, but Sly didn’t notice, he was caught up in the race.
Devastation spiraled, a corkscrew of fury, the force of the wind had made everything go all blurry. But Sly Pie, he squinted, he pronked to and fro, but this wasn’t enough, so to a bipedal stance he did go. Running on two legs, a joke that was funny, he did a quick cartwheel then hopped like a bunny.
The twister, a dastard, a bastard, a creature made of weather, it was being chopped to pieces by sharp pegasus feathers. The weather team flew in, challenging this wannabe nor’easter, they flew up its backside and they kicked at its keister. Pegasus ponies, such hardasses, such brutes, they dispersed the demon wind with harmonious poots.
But Sly didn’t notice, he was too busy vamoosing, he paid no attention to the pegasus goosing. The road up ahead, it was calling his name, just like his mother, who now played the game. He had a head start, the weather was clearing, his mother was fast, and was constantly nearing. This game, it had rules, and he let her have hope, he blew her some kisses and then laughed like a dope.
The first rays of sunshine pierced the defeated mean twister, and Maud made a promise, Sly’s ass she would blister! But these were just words—they held no real threat—and Sly stomped through a puddle, becoming quite wet. The colt, still laughing, now muddy, was joined in a puddle by Pinkie Pie, his auntie, his buddy.
Hooting like loons, these pronkers did pronk, hoof-bumping each other with a jolly swift bonk. Maud, she gave up, just wasn’t worth it, this was her problem, she just had to birth it. With a deadpan expression, she caused others to gawk, it was so scandalous, she stripped off her smock!
Now also pronking, she joined both her son and her sister, together they celebrated the end of the twister. The grey skies parted, becoming quite blue, the storm was ending, and the rhymes they were too. The storm had its magic, the tale has been told, the magic is fading, the rhymes must go cold.
And so it is over, go pronk in some puddles.
Author's Note
There is actually a pattern to the rhyming. I was experimenting, so forgive me if this seems a little out there. It was just a little something to have fun, an old man playing with electron arrangement.
