Incantation #9
Infant,
on a spoon-fed
diet of glory,
smeared on your face and
dripping down the walls,
be banished.
Child,
arranging your
sentient toys to
make sure they lose any
game that might suit you,
be bound.
Wastrel,
with arms crossed
asleep on your island
awaiting your bridge whole
from the distant coast,
be gone
before builders overbalance
and drown for you.
Be gone.
