Come forth young bard,
Step into the light and recite
The tale of Sir Albert Ross.
Sing loud the verse
That sullied this earth
One cold miserable day
Back in old '89.
A sad song is played by a fire
At the base of Imp Mountain.
Nature refrains, for a moment
He plays for the universe.
Now Albert, from birth
Was bequeathed with a curse
That as long as he loved
All else would die.
Turned bitter by fate
His burden he traded for solace
When he solemnly removed his eyes.
Now flowers grow from bleached bones
In a glad on Imp Mountain.
Albert's remains stain each page
Of his unwritten parable.