The year I first became a man
 I sailed across the sea;
My pockets filled with silver coins,
 I sought my destiny.

Arcana Minor was my goal–
 I'd heard it often told
How seers who resided there
 Were worth their weight in gold.

A village nestled by a lake
 Was first upon my quest
Where seers drank from fourteen Cups
 And spoke of love possessed.

Next I sought a mountain top
 Where gentle breezes blew
And questioned fourteen men with Swords
 About what I should do.

One ancient seer stoked a fire
 Which burned both day and night,
Gave fourteen whacks with her Baton,
 Then vanished from my sight.

The final town was made of mud
 Where fourteen pasteboard thieves
Relieved me of the silver Coins
 Tucked safely in my greaves.

I left Arcana Minor poor,
 Yet wiser for my debt–
I learned what I already knew
 Or likely would forget.