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With a flick of the wrist,
or sleight of hand,
the illusionist weaves
a story grand

An old drifter one night greeted me,
from an alley, thick with rot
he asked of me a minor plea,
I heard, but wish I’d not
“Please don’t be fooled by the snot,
I’m really a man of class,
but sir, it seems that I’ve forgot
more as my years pass.
Surely, sir, you would not mind
to help me with my plight.
I’ve a spell that’s well refined,
you’ll just feel a pin-prick, slight.”

I’m a bit on edge, but I say, “Alright”
for spells are the tools of fools,
my body crumbles, and my vision blurs white
while the old man laughs
and watches

With a flick of the wrist,
or sleight of hand,
the illusionist weaves
a story grand

A traveler came into our town,
preceded by a storm
he greeted the gallows with a frown,
but otherwise, fit the norm
he said he came to inform
of a monster in our midst,
of a beast, from Hell born,
and told us that he would assist
if the price was right

The Elder’s debated, then undivided
declared, “Tonight’s the night!”
but the service that the traveler provided
was to me, at least, misguided
for on that morning, (and I’m still scorning
what the Elder’s had decided)
the old ways would be abandoned,
while the traveler sat on gold

With a flick of the wrist,
or sleight of hand,
the illusionist weaves
a story grand

I drift into a village,
ripe with decay
ransacked by the pillage
of demons, every day
the peasants hide and pray,
and the royals pay no mind
when a child goes astray
no body, will you find

I stayed in the village, for a few weeks,
to watch the demons brawl
finally, their Elder speaks
of this fate that did befall
and said, if I recall,
“First a tax, then we’ll relax
behind a colossal wall.”

As I left, I watched the demons
count their copper coins

With a flick of the wrist,
or sleight of hand,
the illusionist weaves
a story grand

Each day of my life,
I’ve had to beg and crawl
labor claimed my wife,
and her lovely drawl
hidden behind The Wall,
and trapped here, with my pain,
nightly, my tears fall
stinging, acid rain

I can’t take much more,
so to the Elder, I go
out my heart, I’ll pour
and all my pains, I’ll show

The Elder laughed at my woe,
and to not taint the saint,
I was cast into the snow
and called a traitor

at least my pain will end

Through a flick of the wrist,
and sleight of hand,
the illusionist weaves
a story grand

tried playing with repetition

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