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"Let my inspiration flow in token rhyme, suggesting rhythm,
That will not forsake you, till my tale is told and done.
While the fire lights aglow, strange shadows from the flames will grow,
Till things we have never seen will seem familiar.

While the story teller speaks, a door within the fire creaks;
Suddenly flies open, and a girl is standing there.
Eyes alight, with glowing hair, all that fancy paints as fair,
She takes her fan and throws it, in the lions den.

The story teller makes no choice. soon you will not hear his voice.
His job is to shed light, and not to master.

Since the end is never told, they pay the teller off in gold,
In hopes he will return, but he can NEVER be bought - - - or sold." - - - cheers...