A thousand miles out there lies
a cavern so I’ve heard, and in
it’s depths is held the truest
of the powers of the world, with
all the snapping grips upon it,
all the reaching souls deranged,
there’s not a finger, paw or feather
that can touch the thing unsinged

I’ll be following my father, for it,
tracking all his steps, and if
the trail goes cold I’ll just have
to find the way myself, with
the eloquence of danger
and my snarling steel unfurled
I’ll be gripping soon, the very
truest power of the world