Old man, stop pottering
And shuffling your feet in a circle
On a dusty floor.
Here on my loom I weave the thread
That binds men's fates.
My sisters spin the thread
And I in turn will cut
Where necessity and desire
Hit appetite and pride.

One cut and clay is dust
And Gods sneak back to base.

The gates are mine, my love.
Follow the warp and weft
And while you spin your wheel
I will deem you worthy
At my will.