His profitless enterprise
Sickly King’s boils dire need of lancing, neither Holly nor Ivy
The water we need boiled scarcely lukewarm
He prises the skin apart and his hot needle enters
Thick, slow-sliding goop slides down his bicep like a stabbed egg’s centre
The excess humor first black as a puma, then grey and chunky as tinned tuna
The rise of buried prophets like a rocket sunrise on Doomsday, sods falling from them like compromised disguises
Mark the ground where I rob Peter to pay Paul
My constancy makes Markievicz look flakey
Half of Irish revolutionaries looked like missing Marx brothers,
When I don’t pay my debts, call me Revolut-ionary.
Alchemisland 
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