A seventh son so his hand heals, he feels the wound a suture sealed
Draws a wince, his princely manner becalms, he prescribes drams of homemix
Gnomic diagnoses, remedies from his old index of herb lore, forgotten ologies and indeed forgotten maladies
Powders to harden sleeping priapics, pricks with narcolepsy
He is the necromancer over dead dicks
Hawks a hair sprouting miraculous admix
Sticks which when rubbed conjure lightning, ores orange as the stygian Styx
For if you want a plus size dick, an additive to dampen dreams
A resin that seals up any seam, a heaven pebble for a cloudy stream
Just as the land heals the hands seal the land deals the landfills are Stigless
The fruit trees bare and figless, the landmaid shorn and wigless, the wickless
Corn King’s flame flickers, his bog blood is the lifegiver, he subsides nippleless.
Alchemisland 
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