40 omens will come to be,
pick and choose which ones to see.

Cross the bridge, beware the creek,
purge a demon, with a beak.

Even if you’re Kobe B,
with baller shoes, the feet will freeze.

Cold and dark, but still can see;
atop the mountain, around the trees,

sits a hut but in a dream,
worshiping technology.

In this place where souls are free,
Alan Watts will pour the tea.

Latin, Sanskrit, and some Greek,
explaining life as hide and seek.

In the book that you will read,
from Duncan Trussell and John D,

A gift is passed onto thee,
A witch’s brew, of letters, three.

open up to hear and see,
for the mind, a remedy.

A heavy heart to pay the fee,
of feeling fear, collectively.

Split them up, three by three,
some to stay and some to flee.

Smile at death and you will see,
the glory of an angel’s glee.

Play the game and eat some ghee,
Vodka, wine, and rice crispies.

To know the tribe unconsciously,
find balance and strength in Samasthiti.

To say the journey is complete,
without a single casualty,

descend the mountain to the sea,
and seal away the melody.

The whereabouts of this deed,
Shall remain a mystery.

Here’s to all the lives we lead,
I tip my hat and drink my mead,

Respect and love the mountains please,
This one’s for Keith.