The Sorcerer’s Song
OH! my name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS—I’m a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses,In prophecies, witches, and knells!If you want a proud foe to “make tracks”—If you’d melt a rich uncle in wax—You’ve but to look inOn our resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe.
We’ve a first-class assortment of magic;And for raising a posthumous shadeWith effects that are comic or tragic,There’s no cheaper house in the trade.Love-philtre—we’ve quantities of it;And for knowledge if any one burns,We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophetWho brings us unbounded returns:For he can prophesyWith a wink of his eye,Peep with securityInto futurity,Sum up your history,Clear up a mystery,Humour proclivityFor a nativity.With mirrors so magical,Tetrapods tragical,Bogies spectacular,Answers oracular,Facts astronomical,Solemn or comical,And, if you want it, heMakes a reduction on taking a quantity!Oh!If any one anything lacks,He’ll find it all ready in stacks,If he’ll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
He can raise you hosts,Of ghosts,And that without reflectors;And creepy thingsWith wings,And gaunt and grisly spectres!He can fill you crowdsOf shrouds,And horrify you vastly;He can rack your brainsWith chains,And gibberings grim and ghastly.Then, if you plan it, heChanges organityWith an urbanity,Full of Satanity,Vexes humanityWith an inanityFatal to vanity—Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.Barring tautology,In demonology,’Lectro biology,Mystic nosology,Spirit philology,High class astrology,Such is his knowledge, heIsn’t the man to require an apologyOh!My name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS,I’m a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses—In prophecies, witches, and knells.If any one anything lacks,He’ll find it all ready in stacks,If he’ll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe!