You beg the holy beggars;
To protect you, as you smudge with sage and feathers,
And pray that they’ll select you,
For the Shaman of the Year award.

Or perhaps you'll finally be nominated;
For a spiritual Grammy, or a proper Oscar.
Not that you'd even notice, of course,
Because your ego was transcended,
Such a long time ago, in that sacred age of copper;
Oh rather, how confounded, memory can be;
For upon your word, you now recall it all too well,
It was certainly, ah yes, such a silly mistake, you see;
There could be no question about it, an age of gold, indeed.