Horace flexed his empty hands
at the encroaching thugs,
fingers conspicuously absent
of the magic lightning
he had promised.
His robes were covered in moons
and little jupiters.
'Back off!' he yelled,
'Don't make me coruscate
with cobalt energy.
Why, I can materialise
a troupe of flametongued
fiendish tumblers with no more
than a snap of my giddy digits
and a few portent-laden
Latin intonations.'
He retreated an extra step
and felt his back meet damp brickwork.
'So don't make me do that.
Because I actually can.'
But the men were cynics.
They stepped through puddles
loaded with stars.
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