Cibola

You know it's time to sail home/ When your conquests leave you starving and stranded/ And all the courses plotted/ Encapsulate less than what was demanded/ When the tricks of scurvy begin bending bones/ And wanderlust no longer beleaguers the throne:/ Give up the ghosts/ There is no golden city/ Fabled and cantankerous beyond all repair/ And you're not the first to be held/ By a land no less than hostile to those of your shade/ But relax, conquistador/ Noble in your servitude/ Your crippling thirst hears not a stream/ It's just the sound of your stomach digesting itself/ If you find strength to smile/ To part parched lips dry as stiff as autumn leaves/ You have one chance/ Because the natives have never, ever seen horses/ Trade to the gods your shine/ Mother Spain left you behind