The ripples of the land make for,
Old glacial keepsakes. Tiding from,
An age when giants walked the plains,
When iron roots splayed out beneath,
Not irrigating clouds but fierce,
Despotic tides in centenary march.

Inequality but not the tragic kind,
Instead invoke the nifty sign,
Familiar to some and strange to most,
An echo of a crocodile's boast,
I scarce care for crocodile meals,
Instead just how he stomachs all the reals,
How does he flip and intersect,
Under my full arithmetic set,
Inequality but not the tragic kind,
Instead invoke the nifty sign.

I look into the looming air,
I am so small beneath the expanse,
The dancing clouds seem full and fair,
Alight with golden rays that seem to make them swell.