The river of ink flows dark cozened blue,
Flowing so smoothly from a source made of true.
It carves out a path with many a turn;
O! To see how those ill waters churn.

But the river drys up as the ink feels its age
And the lies begin to fill up the page;
Steeped in sepia, fading to sight
As the river of ink drys up in the light.

So we mourn for the river that told us the truth,
For the source we knew held the fountain of youth,
And we curl up our bones in the dust of our ink
And cry for the truths that taught us to think.