He wanders labyrinthine stacks
Reshelving lore (read: children’s books)
And planning graveyard ghast attacks.
He mumbles spells, gets worried looks.
While he accepts the modest fees
On bodice-rippers turned in late,
Or frowning, whispers “Quiet, please,”
He plots the players’ dismal fate.
Be warned – this patient mage will serve
By finding you that gardening tome,
But if you’re rude, the toad god Slurve
Is at his beck, is in your home!
At last when every patron’s gone
He reads the Necronomicon.