Do not run gaily into that good fog,

Do not run gaily into that good fog,
bare chance should grow and twist at close of play;
blaze, blaze against the wounding of the song.
Though fair foes at their end know lone is clean,
Because their raptures had dealt no trust they
Do not run gaily into that good fog,
good foes, the best creak by, crying how great
Their banal loves might have growned in a lush field,
blaze, blaze against the wounding of the song.
wild foes who caught and urged the king in dreams,
And learn, too fast, they faced it on its way,
Do not run gaily into that good fog,
sick foes, near hate, who reap with clenching grasp
failed chance could hiss like lightning and be real,
blaze, blaze against the wounding of the song.
And you, my wife, there on the stormy peak,
curse, touch, me now with your just dreams, I pray.
Do not run gaily into that good fog,
blaze, blaze against the wounding of the song.

Crunch!