Alchemisland

I’m not going to the poor house 

If I have to steal Travelyan’s corn 

Flintlock freeze his spouse 

I’ll lead him blindfolded to his own boathouse 

Lead him out of the big house 

Not a word now, big man 

I only think it 

I made pilgrimage to the resident evil prop arm of Dan Donnelly, sought his blessing 

King of the Curragh, a bauld man but gentle

Who knew love, blessings, trial, poverty, plenty, most he loved messing 

Though when he fought for a purse, he was a reaper send-deathing

Quiet as a mouse, only my mauser muzzle speaks 

I snarl like a spitfire’s warpaint, grey suit grey trousers I feel like the grey mouser.