My water is hot and steamy, close to a boil, it rests beneath the rocky soil. When pressure climbs, it rises with might, and suddenly bursts upwards, what a sight!

I circle the waist in fabric neat, Or hug the edge where land and street. I dodge the truth with sidelong pace, Yet frame the bottom with modest grace.

I make a tall point, but I am not made of limestone. You might see me in places like, Egypt, Washington, and Rome.

I grow with time, albeit slowly. Am carved and shaped by air and flow. Men may cap me with their walls un-holy. Roaring I cover them with rocks and snow. Respect and care for me, and safe I’ll let your travels be.

Staring down from the heavens, the red-eyed cyclops towers over his friends. Ninety-five minions are at his beck and call, with four mighty generals among them.