Poesye

The Steamy Beast.

It rips across a surface now
In a wilderness of tyrant demon rage,
Harrying now here, now where, it is not known,
Collapsing all who stand, who linger on to toil
Above their comrades that have fled below.
He (for so it may be called) roars and spits a burst of foulest hiss
Into the treacherous air that, rather than rejecting, striking down,
Now elevates, now raises high the steaming, gaseous welt
That screams up then to new ethereal climes.
In brief, it is a scourge, so loose and potent of a type
That only mother dear may lift it up, despite its hateful gripe.

...Would you believe it? This is actually about a clothes iron.