Beware the wizard blue,
of whom the stories true,
For he is not as he seems,
Instead built of crippled dreams,
and though his face be benevolent
it hides scores of lives lain torn and rent.
That hat of stars,
those hands of scars,
his locks of grey,
the years betray
his deeds through time
his work, his crime
upon man and ‘verse
He plies his gift, his curse
Though once proud and tall
Now stood bent and small,
But if the gold doth spend,
his powers still lend
any wish fulfilled
or blood be spilled,
to curse their names
to win adoring dames
there be no depth nor darkness,
his powers shall not harness
for no need nor want
thereupon a wyrmwood wand
he marks this oath, this bond.
But before you seek his aid
know, he is always paid
and the coin, it is but half
for in his den he hides a laugh,
the balance, it comes due late
and seemingly by fate
his schemes and plans
converge like hands
as they close in firm
you fight, you squirm
they squeeze for death
and upon your final breath
your life, your mind, your soul
they join the legion in the bowl
of his font, the very same
from whence your desires came
to keep him earning
to grant the yearning
of the next poor fool
as narrow and as cruel
Beware the wizard Blue,
for indeed the stories are all true...
