The Alchemist
Hiding from the worldly cares,
A hermit living with his wares,
The alchemist will have grown old
Before transmuting junk to gold.
In his younger days, a gallant gent,
With money had and money spent,
A striking woman from the West
And little children in the nest.
A happy life without a care,
His cattle grazing everywhere,
He never knew that he'd been kissed
By Fate to be an alchemist.
Then robbers down the road did roam,
Killed his children, burnt his home,
Barely left him with his life,
Two cows, a pig, and lovely wife.
But Black Death took his wife away
And debts became too great to pay;
The creditors, becoming bold,
Demanded currency in gold.
So now he sits and stirs his pot,
Bubbling brews and boiling hot,
Making potions, paints and pills,
With the metals from the hills.
Light the fires, heave the bellows,
Searching for the gleaming yellows;
Another guess within his brain,
Another try, but all in vain.
Hiding from the worldly cares,
A hermit living with his wares,
The alchemist will have grown old
Before transmuting junk to gold.
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