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.