Three little lions weary on the green,
Is lost again: how ever will they show
Their fangs on stage, their cultivated might?
But it is in the falling of a man,
In little deaths that he is known yet true,
Perhaps in bowing low they rise to height.

The heavens' treasuries are bust,
Unseamed they spill twice over all,
So formless lose all measure of restraint,
And we are made too rich.

Deafened by the rain,
It pours incessant down in streams,
Like roiling flood dragons bearing silver fangs,
Like great anvils to the feet of gongs,
They rattle and I wish to stand amongst the noise,
Pour out myself amidst this majesty,
For He is Lord and I am ruined,
He holds me as I fall beside the thudding rain.

Bustled room,
That is to say that the bustling is complete,
Crazy smells wafting up from the meat,
There's some chillie and beans,
And the spices are elite,
Fueling the talk of a family of five,
Full bellies later and we're back on the drive.