Beneath the dying sun's incessant gyre,
beneath the fading skies of palest hue,
the final continent may die by fire
or else by fields of ice that glow so blue.
When gentle breezes stir the frail fescue,
the very thought of ice, or else the pyre,
that may consume Zothique does pass from view
beneath the dying sun's incessant gyre.
When gentle breezes lathe the shy samphire,
the thought of fate will chill and soon imbue
the fragile mind with such a fey quagmire
beneath the fading skies of palest hue.
But why seek out the clouds when skies are blue?
Enjoy the day, fulfill your heart's desire
and let the nervous doomsayers construe
the final continent may die by fire.
And when the night is filled with pale foxfire,
and zombies flounder through the dark bayou,
think not by flame this old world will expire
or else by fields of ice that glow so blue.
Enjoy what time is left, sings the cuckoo;
who cares if through the night flits the vampire,
or distant lands are ruled by dark voodoo?
So join me here beside my bright bonfire
beneath the dying sun.