The Conjurer

There was once a dwarf, few inches tall,

From town to town he flew.
In search of a man who fancied much,
What the dwarf had learnt to do.

He had a broom that he travelled on,
And a book of spells, his guide,
And wisdom which none percieved as good
But to convince, he always tried.

He called the crowds on streets each time,
To explain the rite, then perform.
But it scared them off to no end, each time,
Just before he was about to perform.

Upset and alone he sat on the streets,
In his hand, a half-burnt cigar.
And then a yeoman came up to him,
"Are you the dwarf I'm looking for?".

Dead on his feet, the worn out yeoman,
Began explaining his need.
Excited the dwarf who had never performed,
Was about to perform his deed.

Together they went to the yeoman's old farm,
The place where it was to be done,
And together waited for nightfall, for it,
Could not be done under the sun.

"Get me some leaves, some twigs, some ice,
A pot to hold them all,
While I'll rehearse my spells a bit,
Quick, don't wait for nightfall."

At last the time had come, the dwarf,
Was about to summon a ghost.
While standing beside him, scared, yet alert,
Was his spellbound yeoman host.

In front of the crops, he stirred the things,
As he chanted his spells out loud.
And in the sky there was thunder and lightning,
And rain from a single cloud.

"That's him!", the dwarf announced with authority,
"Coming towards us both.
Prepare yourself, as it was you,
Who ordered to summon the ghost".