The Borran Wizard

Living alone in a candlelit cave

Sits a wizard so very grave

His name is Gorvan of the Borran tribe

An old man who thinks he’s a magic scribe

Dressed in robes of glittering gold

He looks the part but should be told

That each spell he casts has little power

Not enough to make his enemies cower

For his magic does not work at all

When sacred words he tries to call

For he has such a dreadful stammer 

Severe enough to thwart his grammar 

Because when faced with fearful foes

He starts to mumble and his stutter grows

Until he is unable to pronounce a word

And soon his voice cannot be heard 

So all his spells are lost in a jumble

As each line he speaks begins to crumble

Into an unavoidable mess

And what he says you can only guess

Maybe one day he will get better

And pronounce each word and every letter

The Borran Wizard