This is the babe born of thunder and spiders,
A rose with hidden thorns.
She’ll sing like a brook as she conquers her dreams,
No vase can keep our rose, it seems,
A babe unafraid of the storms.
And when we need a hero sweet,
We’ll call for the rose with the monkey feet
And she’ll bare her thorns ‘til the world is beat,
The babe of thunder and spiders.
Then she’ll settle back in her ebony hair,
The rose without a vase.
And she’ll laugh and she’ll smile while time grows old,
While her spirit is ever gilt with gold,
While the rest of us give chase.
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