There is an old rhyme from the world we knew. A poem of greed and forebearance, for all to listen to...and, perhaps profit from. The original storyteller is long gone. May his Ka rest.
As I was walking down the road, I met a man with hoards of gold:
A treasure, some might say, far beyond some's wildest dreams.
He jabbered on and on, bout days and ways both new and old;
And all the while, babbled on about the eldest, truest schemes. He sought
A place to hide, perhaps, to count his metal, blistering cold,
Never realizing the end reflects the means.
He told me of a place, a face, a hole outside of Ra's embrace,
In the center of that unforgiving eye;
Where more was laid, where games were played, and fortunes would be made,
But still, I saw in every single word a lie.
Perhaps his eyes were blinded by that burning sky.
It wasn't long, this old man's song; Osiris fin'ly did him wrong;
All that gold he carried only weighted down his run;
And as the desert swept his aged figure clean,
I knew quite suddenly the place that this old foolish man had seen.
No treasure there, perhaps for some;
And no plants o'ergrow the chosen one.
You'll find the path he took led east, right to the settin' sun.