[Verse 1] Gather round, ye weary souls, I'll sing a tale most small, Of one whose mighty deeds, good friends, dwarf heroes proud and tall. No sword she bore, no armor bright, no banner did she wave, Yet courage in her tiny heart would put to shame the brave! [Verse 2] The itsy bitsy spider, with purpose in her eyes, Beheld a water spout that reached toward the skies. "Here," thought she, "lies my destiny, my tower to the sun!" And up the narrow passage climbed, her journey now begun. [Verse 3] Eight legs with determination, up the metal wall, She spun her silver lifeline, lest she chance to fall. Thread by thread and step by step, she conquered inch by inch, While mortals rushed about below, none saw her noble clinch! [Verse 4] But lo! The clouds grew heavy dark, as if the fates conspired, To test this little climber's will and see if she would tire. Down came the rain in torrents wild, a flood from heaven's gate, And washed our tiny hero down - yet still she met her fate! [Verse 5] Drenched and battered, bruised and worn, upon the ground she lay, While rain drummed out a funeral march for her ambitious day. Yet in her heart, no sorrow dwelt, no bitter tears of woe, For she had learned what few souls know - that up, she yet could go! [Verse 6] Out came the sun, as sun will do, when storms have spent their rage, And dried up all the rain that writ the ending of this page. The little spider shook herself, looked up with gleaming eye, "Perhaps," said she, "the spout still waits beneath that sunny sky!" [Verse 7] The itsy bitsy spider, with wisdom newly won, Went up the spout again to greet the warm and welcome sun. And if you think her story ends with this triumphant climb, You've missed the greatest lesson, friend - she'll try again next time! [Verse 8] For in this tale of tiny might, a truth shines crystal clear: The size of one's ambitions should not be bound by fear. What matters not the height you fall, nor how the storms may rage, If up you climb when morning comes to turn another page! [Final Verse] So when life's water spouts seem tall, and rain begins to fall, Remember our small hero's tale, the smallest of them all. And if this song has pleased your ears, a coin would warm my heart, For minstrels too need sustenance to practice their fine art! [Spoken, with a chuckle] Now, mind you keep this wisdom close, but pray the spider's far, For some folk fear the eight-legged kind, no matter how they star!
