Usually pale folk,
in a black cloak,
A bone scythe,
a mysterious sight.

Misunderstood,
from their calm mood,
doing graveyard gardening,
here and there a ritual thing.

Why waste a good bone,
independant from which home,
a poor peasants remains,
or a battlefield after arrow rains,

The corpse of a dead king,
or a careless youngling,
in death they share one attitute,
they are dead, dude,

So what is wrong in a second chance,
a midnight cemetary bone dance,
Necromancers are green pioneers,
unfounded missjudges and fears,

Call them Recyclomancer,
or a second chancer,
a bone artist,
the master of the dead mist,

Undead mercenaries,
fear not wolf nor fairies,
they do not require food,
and have usually a stable mood,

Not too much questions asked,
prefer to be simply tasked,
and if one of them gets defeated,
with spare parts the magic can be repeated.

And who would attack,
a merchant with a skeleton pack,
and as silent support,
they bring beneficial discomfort,

ideal for negotiations,
and conctract creations,
Imagine the profit awaiting,
Necromancy is a good thing,

The Necromancers usually demand a share,
why would you about meat and bone care?
The one or other soul,
no problem if this is all.

Never do a blood trade,
that clearly said,
But seriously who would do that,
every contract clearly read.

The summoner of skeltons and liches,
banshees and bone witches,
comanders of the dead,
true winners of war and bloodshed.

Such a useful profession,
with a tendency to depression,
Understanding listeners day and night,
no complains, no matter the work, or the fight.

Now go and seek the Necromants guild,
usually near cemeteries built,
A small pact later,
you will feel greater.