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#WizardWednesday
In times ere now we'd often wish
That a wizard would pass through,
Repair our ills, make right the rains,
And dazzle the young ones too.
So when a wizard we espied,
On a not too distant day,
Upon the road in patchwork hat
A joyous cry we raised.
In times ere now we'd often wish
That a wizard would pass through,
Repair our ills, make right the rains,
And dazzle the young ones too.
So when a wizard we espied,
On a not too distant day,
Upon the road in patchwork hat
A joyous cry we raised.
With great excitement came a plan
For a raucous welcome feast.
The casks were tapped, the ovens fired,
The spit-roast poles were greased.
And well in to that happy night
The wizard drank his fill.
More, perhaps, than prudent,
But all was well until
For a raucous welcome feast.
The casks were tapped, the ovens fired,
The spit-roast poles were greased.
And well in to that happy night
The wizard drank his fill.
More, perhaps, than prudent,
But all was well until
Arising from his table,
With stagger and tilt to standing
He spied his own reflection in
A mirror upon the landing
And thinking it a rival,
Or perhaps an evil twin,
With bellow and belch he grabbed his staff
And a maelstrom began to spin
With stagger and tilt to standing
He spied his own reflection in
A mirror upon the landing
And thinking it a rival,
Or perhaps an evil twin,
With bellow and belch he grabbed his staff
And a maelstrom began to spin
A mighty bolt of chaos
He unleashed upon the foe,
Which, being a mirror, spat it back
Scattering too and fro.
So
Our ills have not been righted,
The rains still vex our crops
But many other changes hath
That drunken wizard wrought
He unleashed upon the foe,
Which, being a mirror, spat it back
Scattering too and fro.
So
Our ills have not been righted,
The rains still vex our crops
But many other changes hath
That drunken wizard wrought
The tavern's now a toadstool,
The mayor turned to glass.
Under patchwork hat, the wizard's face
Is a loudly farting ass.
And now on quiet nights, they say,
If you listen at your door.
One can hear the forlorn clap of cheeks,
Out wandering on the moor.
The mayor turned to glass.
Under patchwork hat, the wizard's face
Is a loudly farting ass.
And now on quiet nights, they say,
If you listen at your door.
One can hear the forlorn clap of cheeks,
Out wandering on the moor.
