A giant was blowing on his pea soup.

Steam billowed, ripples raced before his hot breath, and

Through the chop raced our sloop.



The giant's bowl was made of trees and land.

His breath swirled as he blew, and we

Danced before it, avoiding rocks and sand.

The giant puffed. We tacked constantly.

The shifty, harsh bursts of hot air

Kept us busy, The giant seemed to be angry.

"My soup's cold!" he rumbled, the sky darkening with rage.

He'd been too successful. He'd gotten carried away for

He loved to make us tack too much, a wind-blown newspage.

His anger descended, but we got out of its way.

We'd had enough of his soup and his temper for one day.