While the midgets diddle away
all their glory and all their pay,
where is it you will want to stay?
Late at night, waxing, waning,
what is the story that you're feigning?
With a quick step in your stride,
full of hubris and full of pride,
which way goes the muddy tide?
Treading water, soft, serene,
is all this really what we mean?
A quickly sinking loaded craft
heaving to and fro with graft,
is the problem a leaking shaft?
Could it be it's wound to tight
such as it is in losing might?
The fairy-tale princes will turn cold,
as the mystic cards have told,
deep inside Davy Jones' hold.