Woven deep beneath the caves of melted steel
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Stalks a Mage, a necromancer heel,
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Tortured runic clasps of Aztecetian skill,
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The condor flies scared skies in search of Aznageel.
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Below the sun his withered weasel scurries deep.
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The streams of doom contrive to kiss his sculptured feet.
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His raven legs all churned and ruined through towers of pride
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Above the sun the princely guardian condor flies.
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A beauty ruby fain it's worth twelve lives or more.
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He stammers as he slugs over the staggered floor.
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A chilled moment his dolphin eyes maul jewels of war
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O joy the sunlit condor unearths Aznagel's door.
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Aznagel The Mage
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| Marc Bolan and T. Rex |
