Hight Childe Harold
Brown with bubbles beer in barrels
Sooth all troubles, smooth a quarrel
My soup is not sorrel, soothsorrow throat fodder
Say an our Father over a pint of Fosters
Steady diet nescafé and marijuana
Ma, I wanna be a writer, fuck working in dad’s café all day
Au fait with all five dollar words, prose indicates a man of taste
Thoth’s progeny, my prosody evidence of prodigy
Prodigious producer of voluminous poetry
Illuminate more than manuscripts
Pull off corners to roach my spliffs.
Alchemisland 
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