A poor cartographer is he,
For land is great, and man is far too small,
That draws only what he can see.

A man I knew proclaimed to me,
“I can’t believe [celebrity], ha, lol.”
A poor cartographer is he.

A gauntlet of morality
For him, with spikèd trap and rumbling wall,
That draws only what he can see.

A man on land may think it sea.
When, forced to look within, he sees a squall,
A poor cartographer is he.

I lie within this boundary,
Held dizzy, cowled, sleepful in its thrall
That draws only what He can see.

And thus I summon out to thee
Behind this playful blinding labyrinth wall,
A poor cartographer is he
That draws only what he can see.