Yea, on the winds it blows,
a troubling scent from Western shores.
The recoloring of textures both far and wide,
set many in Great America apart, by a grand divide.
Blown 'cross the waves by mighty winds,
it troubles, surely, our European friends.
So still this divide does grow,
with nary an end that one may know.
This is but sure, and true, said lastly:
in recoloring textures, there is neither might -- nor majesty.
Fuck that rhyming shit, I should have done this in a cadence.