There lived a wizard once beside the sea,
not long ago nor very far away.
He was the finest wizard he could be
(though such was none too fine, I have to say).
He'd call small waves to pull sandcastles down,
and rains to dampen picnics on his beach;
though some say he once made a poodle drown,
such magic was, in fact, beyond his reach.
His shack was built of driftwood and whalebone
and trimmed with golden scales and spiral shells.
For many years he lived there all alone,
reading his books and practicing his spells.
He died a happy sorceror, and sleeps
cradled in his beloved briny deeps.
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