Someone should have told Coronado
He would not find El Dorado.
But if a man wants gold to stack,
He’ll rise while still the skies are black
And strike out with the morning sun.
An hour’s walk merits a ton.
It’s in the radiant rose-cheeked clouds,
Wrapped in imperial silken shrouds;
It sparkles in the branches, leaves
Like treasures tempting thankless thieves;
It’s scattered in the dewy grass
As bright as bits of broken glass.
Old Coronado couldn’t see
The gold that’s there for you and me.
No matter how he crosses lands,
Cíbola’s still out of his hands.