Wizards Are A Bunch of Weirdos
Squirrely creatures,
Reeking of dust,
And paper,
Backs hunched over from too much sitting,
Eyes strained from too much reading.
And there’s always something wrong,
With their hands;
Always blackened,
Or scarred,
Or missing digits,
Or twisted digits,
Or some other malady,
From tampering,
With the supernatural forces,
Of God,
And Earth.
They’re mostly quiet,
Until you get them angry,
And they unleash a plague,
Or turn you into a cockroach,
But they usually turn you back.
Not easy to talk to,
Speak tersely,
In tongues,
Or Jargon,
Few words,
Succinct,
Like a concise,
Articulate toddler,
Frustrated,
That they can’t talk to you,
Because you don’t understand,
The mystic arts,
As well as they do.
Shy,
Avert the eyes,
Will allow a glance,
But will fidget if you look.
Don’t get out much,
Don’t bathe much,
Don’t play much.
They keep to themselves,
In that citadel,
In the valley,
That has no name,
And appears on no map.
They are forbidden to have children,
Or marry,
Not even with each other,
Against their code.
No matter,
Spend more than five minutes,
With one of them,
And you’ll be hard pressed to imagine,
Anyone,
Who’d love them.
Wizards,
Are a bunch of weirdos,
But they have their uses.
If you can deal with,
The smell,
And the attitude,
They can save a failed harvest,
Exterminate a troublesome pest,
Or cure an irritating boil.
If you can deal with,
The smell,
And the attitude,
And afford their prices.
To be a wizard,
To live in that citadel,
To never love,
To pour over old books,
Ruin your body,
And mind,
For the mystic arts,
Takes a special kind of loser.
Not very charming,
But they know their stuff.
