The Cork

Abandoned by the wayside lay a cork wearing a hint of purple Beaujolais. And dreaming of the life force of a stork he had, because of spirits, lost his way. He thought that it would be his expertise to plug and cause obstruction to the snatch. Which would, as it was custom, surely please his holy grail who'd engineered this match. So he would wait for little sugar cubes out back. Placed on the window sill by ladyfinger hands. There was the caveat that none could be pure black nor could the Devil utter premature demands. And so it was that Mister Cork took on the task of what was deemed to be a human coup d'état. He was too small to wear a modern warrior's mask, and never realized the power of faux-pas.