Cement formed volume,
Honed to the shape of a missile,
Spun like stars and stripes of red
In redundant revolution.

Then Orbit composed another turn
Through fluid streams of time,
Those dry and slowly-sorted sheaves,
Darkening pleasures for the Lion.

A dusty labor to be sure
Of moths of brittle fame;
Thus, the rocky mane eroded
And the beast no longer gained.

He went aloft as condors do,
Borne from flickering fire
'Neath the black Atlantian Sea,
Where none should have dared conceive.