A Wizard Drops His Briefcase

A wizard drops his briefcase and he’s late again to the mystical gig! Knocks into a green-fur dragon milling about, smoking a cig. Stupid dwarf, he double parked! In the cab, he holds his nose (a potent spell to fend against the rancid smell of dandruff and booze). He slips on hay as he sways in; a levitating hop-scotch keeps him going. Dust on the elevator knob, it sparkles like sand in glass, but upward flowing. His body is flying, pulsing and hot; He gulps down gallons of inky potions. Splitting wide, the chamber door guffaws and laughs at his silly motions. The draw-bridge closes, sealing in his nervous airs like rabid bats. He quick concocts a pretty image: gentle mouth and abject hat. Icicles pierce the feeble enchantment. Council has cooked a spell of ire: embers light the bridge ablaze. “That’s it, Merlin…You’re fired.”