The wind begins to blow so hard
A lawn chair flies across the yard,
This is wind.
Nature is acting up once more,
People will suffer by the score,
This is a destructive black thing,
Much sorrow and loss it can bring,
This thing has a rage all it’s own,
Sweeping all in it’s mighty cone,
There was once here a house that stood
Now there is but a pile of wood,
Lost to wind.