by Ben Morton

Created on: January 26, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

The Tale of Alathimble Spayd

One dank and dreary afternoon, atop a wretched sandy dune,
Whilst sucking slop from wooden spoon, sat Alathimble Spayd.
And though he'd lately paused to eat, from scraping dung off yonder street,
Six generations to repeat, his h'reditary trade.
And pet pig Seldon nosed about quite close to where he laid,
In the dung-pile he had made.

And much to Seldon's great surprise, amidst the muck there did arise,

A man-shaped thing with bulbous eyes, and slowly did it wade,
With body made from clips and strings, and wide assorted other things,
And great glass eyes in silver rings, unsteadily it swayed.
Then with a great bound-leather book, declared intent to trade.
Dumbfoundedly obeyed.

On taking great bound-leather book, and after but a curs'ry look,
Acknowledged grimoire long forsook, a little age-decayed,
The creature, prenticed to a mage, bereaved now more than half an age,
Could teach it him for meagre wage, if Alathimble paid,
And after momentary thought, agreement had been made.
And down his tools he laid.

They sallied forth across the land, did Alathimble's dubi'us band,
With magic book in eager hand, to learn the brand-new trade,
The golem-creature known as Brent, would teach him magic as they went,
To do good deeds and not relent, till hist'ry had been made,
In pointy hat, and curly shoes, his cloak a little frayed,
His wizard's staff, a spade.

Begun, Brent's teaching, line by line, on starting out, it all seemed fine,
But harmful spells all proved benign, his zest began to fade,
He tried a transformation spell, from tree to troll, and all seemed well,
But troll was pink, and foul of smell, and drenched in marmalade,
And on it's chest, potato sack with purple silk brocade,
Gold filigree inlaid.

They met a woman selling fruit, but Alathimble, short of loot,
Made from spells a brand new suit, for such as she purveyed
And once he'd had a bite to eat, was forced to run off down the street,
In hastily conceived retreat, for fear he might be flayed.
She wisely chose not to pursue, herself thus un-arrayed,
Unwittingly displayed.

One day they reached a fateful page, and Alathimble, prentice mage,
Unleashed a spell's colossal rage, "Gad's Fire-Blast, Delayed",
For fifteen seconds did he pause, to think about his casting flaws,
For every spell he'd failed before, here compensation paid,
Eventually returned to ground in need of surgeon's aid,
His blazing cloak mislaid.

Once casting spells to mend the boot of one young man who played the flute,
By chance, turned him into a newt, and

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