The Wheeled [sic] Chair

The shadow cast from the top of the stair
A crooked hand beckons
Climbing the steps it recedes
To an inner sanctum
The Wheeled [sic] Chair grinds and creaks
And the face loses its cover
Eyes that could be found in the
Ground of some warring African nation
A nose that intrudes on the fair
And pleasant
And wrinkles and moles of
Some witch or magician
Pulling the lever on the chair
When he was briefly not looking
Sends him spinning through
The window where the moon
Was peeking