The Borran Wizard
Living alone in a candlelit cave
Sits a wizard so very grave
His name is Gorvan of the Borran tribe
An old man who thinks he’s a magic scribe
Dressed in robes of glittering gold
He looks the part but should be told
That each spell he casts has little power
Not enough to make his enemies cower
For his magic does not work at all
When sacred words he tries to call
For he has such a dreadful stammer
Severe enough to thwart his grammar
Because when faced with fearful foes
He starts to mumble and his stutter grows
Until he is unable to pronounce a word
And soon his voice cannot be heard
So all his spells are lost in a jumble
As each line he speaks begins to crumble
Into an unavoidable mess
And what he says you can only guess
Maybe one day he will get better
And pronounce each word and every letter
