Pride designed a precious bower
Granting each discarded scrap
The illusion of creative power

Whatever’s found he will devour
And shape to his mind’s map
Pride designed a precious bower

Now his lover he will shower
With refuse in a shiny wrap:
The illusion of creative power

Is she wooed by his false flower?
Will glamour be her trap?
Pride designed a precious bower

Or will her feelings remain dour?
Knowing he can only tap
The illusion of creative power

Leaving him to hunt and scour
The world for his stopgap
Pride designed a precious bower
The illusion of creative power

Imprisoned clouds, waiting to fly,
Held back by a willowed, sandy bank:
The river, green and clear as an eye.
Its silent depths enticed us to pry.
Into the liquid dungeon we slank,
Imprisoned clouds, waiting to fly.

There we discovered we could scry,
And so greedily we drank
The river, green and clear as an eye.

Our brains ceased to electrify,
Souls fusing with those dank
Imprisoned clouds, waiting to fly.

Now bloated, white, we putrefy,
For we could not outflank
The river, green and clear as an eye.

Deliverer of fate we can’t defy,
But for our new life we thank
Imprisoned clouds, waiting to fly:
The river, green and clear as an eye.