• Smoky clouds against the blue paint,
    Naming every crook and con a saint,
    Paling in comparison to the end,
    Mighty mountains beginning to bend,
    But lying in that soft green field,
    With nothing but honor as a shield,
    Soaking in the tides of rolling hills,
    Freezing cold due to empty chills,
    Absorbing the fallen forgotten tiles,
    Sorting them into respective piles,
    Putting the sky back together again,
    Wiping the paint, uniting here and then.