Proudly call themselves The Yolk.
They’re the Yolk, the only Yolk.
They live on the Isle of Egg
In the Loch of the Black Glen.
They’ve lived there ever since when.
They recall no other home.
They could have dropped from the air,
But they’re sure they belong there,
At the center of their world,
The Yolk of the Isle of Egg.
Their faith grows ever more firm.
The hills on their horizon
Were raised up to hold them in,
To keep out the chill of sin.
Lately, things have been changing.
Their climate’s been warming up.
The Yolk grow only more firm.
You must stick where you belong.
You must stick close to your kin.
The world browns at the margins.
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