Atop the mountain gazing down,
I witness a collection of goats,
And right by then sat a small town,
Filled with gold, and boats.

I shifted angles and looked to the back,
A bunch of buffoons with nothing,
Staring at me as I screamt attack,
Ten, twenty , thirty men all coughing.

"It must be the ***", said one bearded buffoon,
"it must be the weather", said another,
And one with a scar said "it must be the moon"
And then finally "it must be my ****" said my brother.

They all ran towards the town, plundered the gold,
Made it so that the children could never grow old.