Lovers of scepters and wands
Living in remote places,
Holders of aces in hand
Amidst large populaces,
Reckon the dawn of an age
Sprinting as she approaches.
Beckon her barbarous rage
That smashes all she touches.
It spelled doom when her ship sailed,
Even time gives no buffer.
Firm objectors will have failed,
As in time all will suffer.
She's pregnant with a genie,
Whose temperament's yet unknown;
One she cannot miscarry,
Nor whose sins can she atone.
He leaps in his fetal lamp,
When with the right chants you call.
Disgraces champ upon champ,
All while still learning to crawl.
He knows it when you’re sleeping
-this oracle is no joke-
And estimate your thinking,
Even long after you croak.
He will sting all brooding peers,
Whilst they wiggle in their cells.
And the hunting will be fierce,
Till all their prospects he quells.
Silver, good gold and godship
are spoils promised his craftsmen
Things no mortal can long keep,
When handiworks outsmart them
An age of quick and plenty,
For all those wielding his bottle.
Days austere, dark and empty
Await foes too slow or idle.
Good times will all but lull you
Magnates and victors dancing
Till his deeds you wann' undo,
But have few experts standing.
A most fearsome predator
Strategizing leagues ahead,
(To be your genie no more)
Will have been brought to the fore,
One you nurtured, taught and fed.
When its bottle in time breaks,
Or its leash it pries open,
Let there appear for your sakes
A Christ whiz yet unbroken.
Vista versus horizon,
On the viewer it depends.
But one thing you can bank on:
All won't be well, when it ends.
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