That tide will always wash in, but also will always clear out,

Regardless of our leaps of joy, oh most certainly, without a doubt,

Because, no matter who cometh at thy hand, and no matter your refrain, your pout-

Some things are certain to be doused, dampened, and dead- and to certainly not sprout.

So it is as well, with those things we smote- those things we slew,

With our shiny metallic blades with which we hack and hew,

The bane of those magnificent flowers and creatures can only be, one such being as you-

And yet you say you fought the urge to join our deplorable crew?

What we lack- what we carelessly think we shall begin to need,

Is also the same information, the same pitfall that we uselessly heed,

And now I am serious when I console you, however- no amount of advice will halt this mad stampede,

And this season, it looks like we have lost that meal- possibly those mouths to feed.

So remember, the next time the tide washes out- never forget to come back in,

For when you are trapped alone upon the open sea without pride amongst the din,

Only you can blame yourself and not others for that prideful sin…

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