At home in so much noise,
The mess of play and laughter's oil,
My people, O, your people!
Such cobbled gift which overfills,
Designs too wonderful,
Make happy saints from every walk.

Full of stories from a far off plain,
A fiercer Sun on windswept flat,
Talk of bricks back when your crown was black,
But now you have a silver mane,
Now a twinkle that still sits behind,
Your wrinkled eyes.

Packing up to pack down later,
Maybe there'll be alligators,
Pack more than needed and hope it stays unneeded still,
Maybe I'll eat a bright red pill,
Don't forget to to take the tech,
Maybe from it you'll build a mech.