I boasted great skill and dared a goddess to a weave. My skill shamed the gods, but my hubris brought blight. For now I’m condemned to spin, not cloth but thread, With many legs where once I tread, thus I weave my penance instead.

I don’t need sleeves to make a scene, I simply flip and change my sheen. I promise warmth, then sell you cold; my loyalty’s already sold.

Vapor appear in golden dew, In simple meal I readily grew, In ancient times the wilds provide, But feed the fire and swiftly died

Arr, a tune that stirs the breeze, where salty tales meet the seas. Echoes from the sailor's chest, a hearty song that ne'er lets ye rest!

I am a tapestry woven from countless threads, some shimmering gold, others stained with crimson. I am both a record and an interpretation, constantly rewoven by the hands that wield the loom.