This baton is made of burning steel,
searing with haste to pass it through
to another spoke upon the wheel.
The hand that holds is ice concealed
with a melting core just out of view.
To whom that bears the orb and scepter
or of the solemn gavel and mantle,
turn away and reject the spectre,
vaunt not the pick nor the prospector
to ensure our world is not dismantled.
For those who fall among the mass
who feel as would a grain of sand,
whatever shall be will come to pass.
Not a soul to think that they’ll be the last
to pass the burning glove to the next frozen hand.