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Performed the incantation.
followed runes down to a T,
though used the blood of virgins
fear wand waved impotently.
No scholar of the arcane
my spells are performed by rote
and when no magic rises
I refer back to my notes.

My magic tends to cluster
around the number thirteen,
familiar spells are binding,
feline sorcery serene. 
Surrounded by sleek Wiccans
who mock me with mummery,
for they’ve been schooled in magic,
bumble not in sorcery.

This magic that’s binary,
that’s performed with yea or nay,
matrix of ones and zeros
with which necromancers play?
A smudge upon my spell book
makes charms ineffectual.
When magic’s performed by rote
fear even small changes wreak hell.

So at my station suffer
full prostrate fore magic box,
fear spinneret of world web
has left my soul quite flummoxed.
I’m commanded to make fire,
I’m expected to bring rain,
but you my wand have broken
with your uninvited change.

Prometheus, great titan,
you gave Man the gift of blaze
but with embers extinguished
fear I’m left all in a daze.
I hear the laughing rascals
who berate their old grandpa,
these Mesmers of mutation
who at my soul chomp and gnaw.

Oh, you mighty magicians,
oh, conceited conjurers,
damnable diabolists
who treat me like mangy cur.
One day you’ll too be aged,
find your magic slipped away
laughed at by bougie children
in superiority.

Pray on that day remember
how in your head eyes did roll
for, short of early demise,
know old-age will take its toll.
Performed the incantation.
followed runes down to a T,
though used the blood of virgins
fear wand waved impotently.