Traditionally for a song like this,
I’d need a Muse’s power,
To fill my heart with tales of yore,
To inspire this humble bard.
But, friends, this is the kind of tale
No Muse can tell through me:
The tale of a land spurned by the gods,
And its horrid history.
So, whence forth comes this tale of mine,
O people of this land?
It comes from the cries of the burning towns,
Scorched by our sun’s bright hand.
There once was a tribe of olden folk
Searching for a home,
But under the Angry God of the Bright,
It was getting pretty warm!
They went into a shaded cave,
They fled his sight, unmarked.
Encased by stone, so quiet and cool,
The tribe embraced the dark.
Generations came and went,
The tribe became a town.
The town became a civilization,
And thrived underground.
Our God of Light, he looked around
For this elusive horde.
Naught could escape His fiery gaze,
So, where the hell’d they go?
The concentrated power of our
Flaming God of Lights:
It giveth and it taketh away
It grow-eth and it blights.
When He finally found their home,
All rapt in revelry
The unassuming, unlit cave,
Burned with His jealousy.
“What haven’t I provided them?
What privilege have they lacked?”
The tantrum of the God of Light
Was full to the brim with tact.
“I’ll show them what their flight has brought,
They’ll be sorry they ever left!”
He went back to His working-desk
And prepared a seething jest.
And what a way to get them back,
How hilarious Thou art!
Monsters from the depths of hell,
Who killed them all for sport!
The sprawling cities turned to dust
The towns burned beneath
And all this destruction just because
They were tired of the heat.
O Lord of Light, your peerless wit,
Your sanctimonious farce
Has taught them all a priceless lesson
And turned their homes to dust.
You see, O friends of this Holy Land,
No Muse can tell this tale.
For she herself is unaware
Where her Lord of Light has failed.
