No wizard you can name could be better than mine. Tall he was, and skilled and smart, Thunder was his voice and the moon was his eye, A nebula his hair, sidereal as starfire. He knew the mice's myriad pathways Teeming in hypothetical millions. Books were not enough for his Babelian thoughts, Penned at length in Saturnine ink. Strong were his opinions from high up on his solium. And beloved he was; Dandies tumid were left as the Trojans in his wake. Few men could compare, all valiant, Yet no bad word about him ever reached Heaven. All belonged in his orbit, planets alike. Despite this all, he hid himself in the twilight. Never did I see his body or his name, Never did he tell me who he was or where he came. Only his voice have I heard, its shadow long cast. Others know of these things, for he has told them, Yet not to I. Those silent bishops only gaze and never tell. Far and wide have I ranged, up tables and terraces, My legs are small and I cannot run very far. My arms are short and I…
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