by Jareth Valentine

Come gather 'round, my children dear,

and hear the tale I tell.

About a grim disaster

and a wicked magick spell.

By moonlight, may years ago,

A witch's man did lay

with someone else, a friend of hers,

And did he ever pay.

The witch, once scorned, was furious

and cast a deadly curse.

Some spells are bad, and some are cruel,

but this was even worse.

For once the magick touched him,

he began to rearrange.

His bones, they danced beneath his skin,

His organs, they did change.

Fearsome paws became his hands,

and fiendish wings he grew,

like those of ancient dragons,

never seen by me or you.

Fur did spread across his flesh,

a burning, brilliant gold,

and from his ass, a wicked

curving tail, it did unfold.

Pointed like a scorpions,

and dripping vile goo.

He had become a Manticore,

but still she wasn't through.

"From this day forth," The witch declared,

"This shall be your fate!

I curse you to forevermore

feel shame, and pain, and hate!"

And so, my friends, it came to pass

that even to this day,

Men did fear the Manticore,

and chase the beast away.

The moral of this tale is clear,

but even if it's not...

If ever you do spite a witch,

Be careful you aren't caught.