A forked tongue is in the East,
She sings to my in the early Dawn,
Of the Sun's how Fire and the morning Dew,
Of red, red Rock and a howling Gale.

Her Mountains rounded, the sweetest *******,
Her water hidden down in the Cress,
Her light is blinding, the morning Sun,
Her hair is tossed in a howling Gale.

In the West a straight tongue sleeps,
He rises late and strongly grows,
His Mountains sharp of granite strong,
His voice a roaring, howling Gale.

His hair is Lodgepole, growing strong,
His shoulders sharp and granite strong,
From among him strong rivers flow,
And from his mouth, a howling Gale.

For Power flows from West to East,
A howling Gale that never stops,
Over Mountains and across prairie wide,
And back to Mountains, his morning Bride.

There is a union, where West meets East,
A copulation, a uniting Power,
In the valley, the very core,
Where Power blossoms forevermore.

And there is sits, the seat of Power,
Where West meets East down in the bower,
Where Northern Cold and Southern Heat,
Come together in the howling Gale.