The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Baron Luxon stands by his cauldron.
Victory is close: the sweet aroma of power
drifts tantalisingly through his Mean Damp Rebel Castle.
“Soon,” mutters the Baron,
“I will be in the Grand and Dry Castle of State.
Lo, the Rebel will be Master and the Masters brought low!
But I need some extra juju to make sure.”
The Baron has been up all night for a week,
poring over dark and dusty tomes
of Necromancy and Thaumaturgy.
Into the brackish foulness of his magick broth
He tosses the secret ingredients
Of The Ancient Lords of his Tribe:
Charred ash of the social contract from Emperor Roger,
A crushed and powdered beneficiary from Empress Ruth,
And the small toy race car of Don the Misfortunate.
Cauldron boil and cauldron bubble,
And give the wokesters mighty troubles!
Lo, and from the murk steps an amphibian:
Toad of Seymour,
Warted and clad in nought but magenta woad.
“Fantastic!”, says the Baron.
“Toad Seymour, are you ready to do my bidding?”
But the Toad pays no heed to the Baron
And elbows past him out the door
Where he mingles freely and chats with
The Respectable Middle Classes.
“Wait,” gasps the Baron, “this is all wrong!”
He hastily consults his documentation
But it is already too late.
Toad of Seymour has already reassured
A Mob of the Oppressed and Despondent Bourgeoisie
That in three weeks from his taking office
All of the Raiders of Ram will be sent to the salt mines,
No taxes shall be paid,
And great highways of gold will connect
Their dairy farms, property portfolios and assorted holdings.
The People saith to one another,
“Lo, this Warty Magenta Toad is indeed our Messiah,”
And pay heed no more to the Baron.
Though the Tribe be generally pale,
and aged, and cranky, they hold great stinking piles of loot
which they offer to the Toad.
“No – no!” Cries the Baron.
“I am to be King! The Toad is merely my junior coalition partner!”
But The People have made their decision
And the cries of the Baron are but dry grass in the wind.
“TOAD! TOAD!” The People chant in mindless fervour.
The Baron chases the procession in desperation
But trips on his purple satin gown;
And down into the mud he vanishes
Under the tramping feet of a thousand cheering investors
Who follow their Magenta Messiah
On towards the Grand and Dry Castle of State.