Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare she aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of they heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was they brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did She smile Her work to see? Did She who made the lamb make thee?
--Do you know who I'm talking about? My daughter-in-law, Demeter Corinth. Woe to anyone who steps in 'her' garden. She is on a rage quest to purge the heavens of every last pilot who dares to aspire to the stars. If you see her, she will be the last thing you see...