Burn ancient burn on the sweet child's
Eyes
For he has yet to conquer the world
And his father's rhymes.
He won't rhyme though he is free
And like all free men
The ancient roar will smile in his face
                            Pure as a flower
                                    Proud as the sun
                                              Soft as the rain.

Electrifying like a brainwave
He shall surpass his fathers
And build his own empire
                        Where he shall perish
Yet free as his son too will be,
Dreaming in clouds of fire.