Spinning, spinning, round an’ round

A spider weaves his web overhead.

With each sow, a story to be said.

Stories being told, like the old Anasi.

Only to be read by those who can see.

Weaving, weaving, a wonderful sound.

Stories of old, stories of new.

Those who have read them are but few.

Nor does the spider know these stories shown.

How he tells them is unknown.

Spinning, spinning, the spider alone.

Spiders sow their silver tale

Around the web they never fail.

The spider's web is that of dreams

Of light, silk, and thoughtful things.

Weaving, weaving, down to the bone.

Forever more the spiders write.

Just as sure as they will bite.

Spinning, spinning, the spiders web

Weaving, weaving, until it’s dead.