A Poem for Magicians

The following poem was contributed by Lance Pierce ([email protected]) and is reproduced here WITH PERMISSION. Magicians ought to be uniquely qualified to enjoy this masterpiece.

Quoth the Maven . . .

Once upon a session dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a packet trick
With stories, poems, and more
While I plodded, nearly snapping,
Suddenly, I thought of lapping
Would this catch the audience napping?
I propelled them to the floor
'Tween my knees with naught a breeze
They softly hit the floor
Lain dormant evermore

Ah, distinctly I recall, in Xeroxed lecture notes I saw
This artful, dartful stratagem
Method wise and more
A Goldstein treasure sure to pleasure
Most amazing by any measure
But could I shape it to my leisure
To meet my skill so poor?
To bring the handling further ease
and meet my skill so poor?
Quoth the Maven, "Nevermore."

Standing sudden, quite uncertain, I looked around me, behind the curtain,
Underneath the table, and peered around the door
As I thought, I was alone
But little had my small faith grown
Could I whittle his masterpiece
But still retain the core?
To rid the work of each half-pass
Each triple lift and more
For that rare and radiant packet trick
With the Goldstein touch of lore?
Quoth the Maven, "Nevermore."

"Sir!" said I, "or Max, please consider all the facts
When I express my admiration,
Your forgiveness I implore.
But your wonderful trick, a neo-classic
Is to me a touch Jurassic
But I have a thought that Copperfield would pay a million for
And give us both the fame and fortune
We both are yearning for . . ."
Quoth again the Maven,

Not to be so soon defeated, I took my chair and quickly seated
I counted, flipped, and KM-moved in many ways and more
Vainly I worked into the morrow
When finally fatigued with sorrow
I sought to lift my head and borrow
Illumination as before
"Mr. Goldstein, I beseech you
Knowing not if I can reach you
Knowing I have naught to teach you
I beg of you and more,
Please lend some inspiration to my vain infatuation
Before I lose my will to continue."
Came the stony voice, as before:
Quoth the Maven, "Nevermore."

And so I sat, tattered, beaten
Borne of suffering, soul half-eaten
Knowing that I would never be the magician as before
Meddling with an art perfected
The dissector is himself dissected
No more cards would be selected
I moved slowly through the door
"Perhaps a second deal," I thought,
As I hobbled through the door...
Quoth the Maven,


-- Lance Pierce

(The full and glorious credit for the above poem goes to it's author, Lance Pierce, along with my euphoric gratitude for permission to publish it here. Thanks, Lance!)

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Last Updated: Friday, November 29, 1996