The stream's current is consistent with its flow.
Fortune birthing others to row and others
to never know the strength it takes to use a broken paddle.
There be sizable to a plank;
blame the former for not sharing it's space,
no matter what the size they ride the flow,
both of them have the taste.
waves do not really exist.
It's merely the floating desire they choose to not resist.
The mirage depicts a floating cake -
blazing sun shines on what you see,
setting its flavour.
It's steaming scent leaves droplets on your skin,
reflecting one thousand eyes on its appeal.
Consuming the stodgy weighs down and rocks your fortune vessel.
Ambevalent organs punish you for invading tourists.
Yet stream still flows for all
and thus invaders leave.
A tip from a Baker:
Trust your nose
and you will never have to grieve.