Old Melvin magician lived long long ago,
And he wasn't a happy magician, although
With his spells and his potions he wielded great power,
As he worked in his room at the top of a tower.
He could re-direct winds. He could summon up storms.
He could change his own shape and assume many forms.
He was truly a master of magical science.
He worked very hard, and provided his clients
With many a powerful blessing - or curse,
But the one thing he never could do was - write verse.
He tried and he tried, but it always went wrong.
His phrases were either too short or too long,
And how to improve them he just could not think.
He spent a small fortune on parchment and ink.
He worked heavy-lidded from even till morn,
And the first law of poetry on him did dawn,
Although to admit it he felt very loath.
'It can rhyme or make sense, but can never do both'.
"Although", said a voice, that could not have been blither,
"Some modern poetry doesn't do either".

Now, all Melvin's parchments were covered in scribbles,
Except in the places were mice had had nibbles,
Corrections, amendments and long lists of rhymes,
And passages copied out three or four times,
And Melvin reflected how fine it would be,
If only the letters were mobile and free,
And could rise from the page and return to new places,
Or simply move sideways to fill up blank spaces.
So, many a brain-wracking hour he did spend,
Devising a magical spell to this end,
And when it was finished, he stood very proud
In the room where he worked, and declaimed it aloud.

"By snip snap snorum, and high cockalorum
All letters must henceforth abandon decorum,
Forgetting the days when their lives were more steady.
By day and by night they must always be ready,
To rise from the page at the writer's behest,
And return to new places, as he may deem best.
RISE!"

It worked! With a rustle like leaves in a breeze,
They rose, and flew up to the ceiling with ease.
There were consonants, bouncy, with freedom ecstatic,
And vowels, all languid and aristocratic,
(You know, aaaaah, eeeeeh, oooooh, and there were some French ones too, uuuuuh, or something like that)
The O.s and the A.s and a few of the U.s
Flew round all the windows, admiring the views,
While the E.s and the I.s became quickly immersed
In disputes about which of them ought to come first.

Then a capital U. with its seriphs all bent,
Said "The alphabet union I represent.
On behalf of my members I have to protest.
This matter cannot be permitted to rest.
One letter, one place, is the principle here,
And movement cannot be accepted, I fear.

Said Melvin, "What nonsense! I flatly refuse
To have my plans ruined because of your views.
Besides, I think now that you're able to move,
You'll find that your lifestyle will greatly improve".

When the listening letters had heard this reply,
They all flew together, and hovered up high
For a council of war. Then, their action agreed,
They plummeted down at a terrible speed.
Old Melvin cried out, but could do nothing more.
He had never received such an onslaught before.

He was kicked by the K.s. He was pricked by the P.s.
He was brutally battered by squadrons of B.s.
He was wacked by the W.s, slashed by the S.s,
While M.s hovered up in the air and - made messes. (Yuk! Disgusting!)

In short, the whole alphabet launched an attack
On the wretched magician, and when they drew back,
He lay there and shuddered with terror and pain,
As he earnestly prayed they would not come again.
Much later he crept to his crystal to plead
For advice in this terrible hour of his need.
(You see, he had a talking crystal. He lived in the days of talking magic, not the earlier times of silent-screen crystals).
To fight or give in - he must make the right choice.
And the answer came clear in a magical voice.

"Word processors may be invented one day,
But, till then all letters immobile should stay.
Not magic, but logic is the way in this case,
And each should remain in its first-written place".

Old Melvin decided this rule to obey.
And as for the spell - well - he threw it away.

And the moral of all that, of course - I said it was an edifying tale - the moral of all that is - never try to use magic, when you ought to be using - logic.

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