Sitting in his tall black tower of obsidian stone,
The Watcher leans back in his dimly lit throne.
Eyes of gold and scepter of bone,
The Watcher sits in his throne room all alone.
He seems to stare at the cold open air,
His eyes are frozen in a concentrated glare
At the people below who moan in despair
And move unknowingly before the Watcher's cold stare.
He sees all this before him, but no move does he make.
The Watcher's sly craft is no action to take
But rather to sit, to watch, and to wait
And stare as the people below create their own fate.
Information is the currency of his trade.
His fortunes all on secrets are made.
And