Aznagel The Mage
Marc Bolan
Woven deep beneath the caves of melted steel
Stalks a Mage, a necromancer heel
Tortured runic clasps of Aztecetian skill
The condor flies scared skies in scorch of Aznageel
Below the sun his withered weasel scurries deep
The streams of doom contrive to kiss his sculptured feet
His raven legs all churned and ruined through towers of pride
Above the sun the princely guardian condor flies
A beauty ruby fain it's worth twelve lives or more
He stammers as he slugs over the staggered floor
A chilled moment his dolphin eyes maul jewels of war