Once upon a clearing stream,
Of cottonwood and orange cream,
I had a strange and frightening dream,
That the world had turned to ash.

No stars lit up the pale night sky,
No wolves to give a mournful cry,
No pages to state the reason why,
The world had turned to ash.

I looked into a blackened pool,
And thought myself an awful fool,
For feeling just a tad bit cruel,
In a world that turned to ash.

For in that pool I saw a ghost,
Of things that were when things weren't toast,
And laughed a little more than most,
At a world that turned to ash.

Forgive me if that seems quite cold,
I'm usually not so outright bold,
Or unconcerned but truth be told,
The world has turned to ash.

No predator to chase his quarry,
No blood or guts, nor all the glory,
No people left to read my story,
In a world that's turned to ash.

Then up I wake to loud bird calls,
The world it seems did not quite fall,
It never really happened at all,
That world that'd turned to ash . . . .

So once upon a clearing stream,
Of cottonwood and orange cream,
I long again to have that dream,
Of the world that turned to ash.