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The Right Magic
Heavy text by sorcerers with hand held on their sigil --
say they speak with spirits lost to man by pike and pit.
By voice of sky, they are advised, and ritualize their pleadings,
while burning down the temples housed by neanderthals withstood.
They call afoul the mortal magics held by lesser louts,
and when their voices cloud and gather, soothe their every doubt.
If by temptuous they'll not see, dispatch them all through suffering,
and set them tied, exemplified, and string them from the oaks.
Dare they not in whispered hush, lip their arcane verse
while we try to exorcise their prime and feral natures.
Their spells of falling ice and fire, commands of risen dead:
simple jokes by stupid things who worship baseless idols.
And when they cry, their many gods will sit in numbing silence,
whilst man on Earth who've heard good word will wrest from them their woes.
