The tornado is a vicious tasmanian devil,
Stomping around the ground,
Crushing house and roads,
Grasping everything in his path,
Gobbling house, roads and pathway,
Lighting illuminating the raven black sky,
Like a thousand fireflies.
The Tasmanian devil slowly calms down,
Travelling to his home,
Behind the golden sun,
Calming down and sleeping,
For the rest of the day.
The storm is an angry bull,
Ink black and grey,
He stomps his feet,
Like children in a candy shop,
He rages across the sky,
Dropping bolts down in anger,
Stomping and snorting as he goes,
The wind is like a million wolves,
Howling at the moon.
And when he finally settles down,
And he stops showing his anger,
Like birds singing in the sunlight.
The tornado is a ferocious bull,
Bolting swiftly all evening,
Crashing hazardously across the emerald field,
The bull charges,
Like he is in a china shop,
It causes havoc,
All trough the ebony night,
It hurls chestnuts trees,
Waffling through the heavy wind,
It damages any victim,
That dares to confront it.
When the golden sun rises,
It shines upon the Lincoln-green land,
The raging bull calms down,
And then it gradually fates away.