Battle soon makes one weary. 
Ransacked towns were so dreary. 
They moved to less favored land, 
avoiding death at man's hand. 

Human ideals all wane thin, 
many men would have their skin. 
Ostracized for their long tails, 
men are horrified by scales. 

You're a noble, trusting race, 
you refugees from deep space. 
On this orb, you're forced to roam 
while you wait for journey home. 

At day's end when you retire 
pile the wood up on your fire. 
While men's hatred had grown bold, 
reptile blood won't grow as cold. 

If war's over, I can't tell, 
pray that the snow hides you well. 
In no land nor men confide, 
many hoped for genocide. 

Scaly hides, a winter white 
slinking, slowly, out of sight. 
Through the cold and arctic snows, 
far, far north where no one goes. 
The pale serpents have made flight.