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The Black-Robed Mage
To His Love…
By Raistlin Majere
Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove
That secret lairs and blackened fields,
Darkened towers, or cliff faces yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds flee their flocks,
Which have sprouted fangs, and now give chase…
This may prove to be an unfair race…
And will make thee beds of roses
Out of my spell componentses…
And I will give thee undead servants,
But for that I may need back my spell components;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from the blackest lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the finest (conjured) gold;
A belt of silk and ivy buds,
With shrunken-hand clasps and silver rune studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come with me and be my love.
Whatever you choose, you will be my love,
For my magic is even feared by those above.
A live of love, or servitude?
For, right now, either suits my mood.