Sunstroke

I marked the end of this week's fireside chat
With gunshots and a bloody sacred cow.
Above the falls, I took my final bow,
And made my peace with circles. I was flat,
But old friends pumped me up, although one spat,
"You should have spent more time behind the plough!"
I wavered, but they calmed him down somehow,
Reminding him he should have worn a hat.

We've all had sunstroke, but we're doing fine
Since Adam left the Garden in a rush,
Determined to embrace the wayward thrush
That mocked him, hovering above the vine.
We saw the dark pink rising from his spine,
But it was sunstroke, not a gentle blush.