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Beyond the trembly weald to glassy glane
beneath the wooden breath where thoughts remain
'twas a harkened land called Wordingtane.

The Wizard of Words ruled this land
in grips vernacular he had sturly hand, gimbly grand.
None in Wordingtane fair match for him
he needn't fiat, he could whim
his ekel pronouncements in spelling fusion
for peasants quiet conclusion.

Speaking by riddles it's easy to say,
save a fool, the perfect way.
Long swiffen over time to mumbly masses
in rhyme, it nestled in just fine.

Amber all who would argue
fribbled and frambled tied up
and scrambled, brains rambled,
fell off trillig tracks while
simpering sloggers couldn't get back.

The Riddler tacked to try who came
from afar he posed an answer assert
that vored in abyss and he lost his head.
"No place for his hat", the Wizard said,
"That was that", the crowd anored
in callactic dord their cries flayed
and all obeyed.

Then the Fiddler spun his music trick
and the Wizard metered in time,
felled him with a trocken rhyme.
Then proclaimed the silly Fool
entered his aclaim so tangled a wordmess
he'd profess, using words unheard,
the Wizard unslurred, spinning in a web.

So rilly and rich the "Wiz" confused began
a twitch to twitch he did till flabbergast
through the night till morning past.
Whence he fell asleep at foolish feet
with his verily own vorpal blade in hand
the Wizard's head, in a wreck left his neck,
and the fool would rule in grim humor
this land to tell so trundly true,
the end 'twas justine jewel.

Now the sky is bright, land just right,
'tis the wave whilst the Fool did fight
and twisted foils stretched in hand
he won his refrain, startling reign.

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