The Sorcerer's Song.

Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells     I'm a dealer in magic and spells,     In blessings and curses,     And ever filled purses,     In prophecies, witches and knells!     If you want a proud foe to "make tracks"     If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax     You've but to look in     On our resident Djinn,     Number seventy, Simmery Axe.     We've a first class assortment of magic;     And for raising a posthumous shade     With effects that are comic or tragic,     There's no cheaper house in the trade.     Love-philtre we've quantities of it;     And for knowledge if any one burns,     We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet     Who brings us unbounded returns:     For he can prophesy     With a wink of his eye,     Peep with security     Into futurity,     Sum up your history,     Clear up a mystery,     Humor proclivity     For a nativity.     With mirrors so magical,     Tetrapods tragical,     Bogies spectacular,     Answers oracular,     Facts astronomical,     Solemn or comical,     And, if you want it, he     Makes a reduction on taking a quantity!      Oh!     If any one anything lacks,     He'll find it all ready in stacks,     If he'll only look in     On the resident Djinn,     Number seventy, Simmery Axe!     He can raise you hosts      Of ghosts,     And that without reflectors;     And creepy things      With wings,     And gaunt and grisly spectres!     He can fill you crowds      Of shrouds,     And horrify you vastly;     He can rack your brains      With chains,     And gibberings grim and ghastly.     Then, if you plan it, he     Changes organity,     With an urbanity,     Full of Satanity,     Vexes humanity     With an inanity     Fatal to vanity     Driving your foes to the verge of insanity!     Barring tautology,     In demonology,     'Lectro biology,     Mystic nosology,     Spirit philology,     High class astrology,     Such is his knowledge, he     Isn't the man to require an apology!      Oh!     My name is John Wellington Wells,     I'm a dealer in magic and spells,     In blessings and curses,     And ever filled purses     In prophecies, witches and knells!     If any one anything lacks,     He'll find it all ready in stacks,     If he'll only look in     On the resident Djinn,     Number seventy, Simmery Axe!