If you see my magician,
He is fiddling with mysticism.
All the plays he does,
Are making a mark on you, people.
He’s tripping over, in the middle of the night,
Being an artist all versatile.
In the daylight he makes them cripple,
He is a demon in a bizarre atmosphere.
His magic resides in his blue eyes,
He can see a sunrise in the twilight.
I let him play with humans once,
He didn’t halt even when I begged too.
Making the same mistakes, every time,
He is an occult even when he is slumbering,
beside the window.