I've got a bell and genie,
the genie grants a boon:
perhaps a seed.
At first it is three wishes,
but the first,
I feel like I would like to be immersed,
So I wish the bell was special,
In a way: the zeros would just come,
in the right way.
For each tin of this bell, a rebel yell,
Will set just the right register,
djinn needs hell.
He runs around in circles,
that's his way,
his soul is made of fire,
so some say.
"If only gin and tonic,
could end wars,
wouldn't it be better,
with some fours?"
A hissing and a flame,
they're playing craps;
meanwhile, a distant hunter,
sets some traps.
"If you think it would be better,
then that would be ok'ish - think of mice.
Not always beneficial, so some say,
but necessary killing? Well, the way
with which you do it: you must ask.
Some animals are game; they're only pleased,
when after all that time, they are released,
Think of a wild boar: what's in a name?
I think your answer would be much the same
As the logic with which I go set my traps,
when you eat a former soul, you'll hear their raps"
Now this is not what he says, or what he thinks,
it's an approximation, and it stinks.
It's difficult to translate,
all those words,
each one is made of nibbles,