I was told at a young age that I would refrain
From all the selfish gluttonies
That had plagued the world surrounding me
So I went to the South Pole and I built me a home
And I painted it white so I'd be left alone
And no one would find a trace of me
Except some shriveled bones and a symphony
That I'd scored when I was just seventeen
They were the truest words that I'd ever dreamed
Until the day I died when I was twenty-three
Sinking a ship on the Sea of Constantine
In the time it took for my insides
To turn to dust and then crystallize
The world kept on spinning endlessly
Like the final moment of some reverie
That occurred when I was just ninety-three
I was a hundred and eight before it occurred to me
That the only place in the entire world
That was still so utterly unexplored
As for satellites to not ascertain
Was the Transantarctic mountain range
So I took my soul and I buried it deep
In the mountainside before anyone else could see
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