The Necromancer's Downfall

In the year seventeen-ten, the world almost came to an end

So listen here as we two tell the tale of how one lone soul

Rises above the evil one, forcing its knee to bend

In response to a love that flames a heart like a coal

So gather around, this fantastical story to attend

As we repeat, word for word, just as we were told

On the twelfth day of the Hangman’s Month, on the eve of the Deadman’s Moon

Lord Byron Bisnifagus sat stirring a cup of lemony, licorice tea with his spoon

He once again studied the spell he wanted, reading each line with care

Checking his magical supplies, making sure his needs were all there.

He needed to pick the final ingredient; he had no time to waste

This part of the ritual, though, he had little taste

So taking a puff of air

He finally took the dare

To the cemetery he went, looking for a fresher grave to dig

For courage, he took along his home brew for swigs

Finding the grave that he wanted, he sat out to wait for 12 midnight

If he were to rule, on the thirteenth, he had to begin under the full moon’s light

For the prophecy did say that the one who shall rule over all

Shall rise in a day, and in his rebirth shall not take a fall

Banishing the Evil, bringing about the Good

All this the Magician had read and understood

He’d already created an undead army of bones

Bringing a kind of life to each and every one

It’s just missing its leader, raised by the Necromancer

The crazy Lord, that black art romancer

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~Part 2 (Kelli)~