This mountain is of my own making,
Each piece was selected with care.
And what a sad hard undertaking
It is, to strip all of it bare.

Some levels seem precious and rare,
But some tiers just count as a burden,
It's more than my mind can quite spare
To balance the lot, and be certain.

How very unfair that exertion
Has brought me no garden to tend.
The goal of my life's introversion
Is spread to the winds at the end.

The moments and coins that I spend
Now darken like dust in the rain,
As the peak of my Babelous trend
Is reduced to a comfortless plain.