My young son we live in the mountains
Your wife and I are a family
She is my bride, and your mother
But together our world will prosper
Those far away have liable odds
Trends and baubles and bodies
But here we are spiders in the silk
Nothing above us but the sky as milk
These rhymes grow ever more complex
Dense and droit and clever and tense
Throughout our strain a pistol refrains
America, is our home again.