In the barren lands of Lispindrod,
There lived a shrunken man.
All he wore was a tattered sheet-
And adorning his head was a fedora.
The sands stretched out in every way,
The heat beat down, night and day.
The shrunken man would prophesize
The fate of the whole wide world.
Not once, not twice, but every last time
They did come true- his words.
Said he once, in his raspy voice,
“In the land of green,
With the jealous queen
The regicide reigns and prowls.
Save his mind alone, no other force-
Can save the ruler’s crown.”
Millions and millions of miles away,
A beheaded king fell;
The ground bled royal blood-
And a young soul was damned to hell.
The fates smiled, pleased at the work
Their blessed child had done.