They looked here and there,
looked where they were able.
They thought they’d found the key
to an enduring fable.
They all sought Quivira;
they were searching low and high.
What they sought was only phantasms,
just pie in the sky.
Their thoughts were mythical;
they thought they’d be stealing
from El Dorado; clearly
they were blowing smoke in ether.
They all sought Quivira;
they were searching low and high.
But what they sought was purely phantasms.
Post-failure, they died.

They were all gold-crazy,
trudging miles and miles,
Far away from their homes,
astray in a strange land.
Getting quickly nowhere
and therefore getting riled.
For Quivira they had a ridiculous plan.
They’d never find what they were after—
fecklessly they tried.

Of finding it there was no real danger
in circles they ran around quite a while.
They thought life would be good and they’d be living high.
Gold has value, and lots of things it can buy.

Was a fantasy,
and what would ensue
was a lot of fuss and bother—
in the end they were all screwed.
There was no Quivira…
waste of searching low and high
What they sought was only phantasms.
First they failed, then died.