Poor little pilgrim with your dough-like arms.
May your fetid brain rot within your terms.
I beg of you to find your young solace.
Or kiss the cheek of a God in the streets.
Pledge around this world, around this domain.
March to your merry, melancholy beat.
Oh how I love you, my boy can't you see?
Across all plains we go, just you and me.