On wizened, ancient sands a riddle
With which it helps to start from middle
Told on demon tongue with ambiguity
Answer concealed with ingenuity
The words are mirrors to the truth
Nonetheless, the truth, aloof
One feels the Sphinx trapped a snare
To beckon foolish souls to lair
Eternal plaything of her mouth

With Lion's haunch, and human head
The Sphinx from which the riddle bled
She is treacherous, cold and callous
Spiteful, sour and merciless
Devouring those who aren't suffice
To understand, they pay with life
A spectre one never wants to pass
For devoured are the uncynical, uncryptic class
Because the gods and fate aren't nice