Produce my banana from the bag
It’s going bad, skin’s bistered
Yellow as the fire on you I wouldn’t piss out
If there’s a practical joke I never miss out
Mischance’s prince, Stillorgan’s disorder
Lord of local misrule, east coast exhorder
Too soft to shove up my ass
Over my shoulder cast, passing back
It lands on the path like I ordered it from Acme
Lot’s wife checking every ten seconds
Waiting for someone to get succoured, then wrecked
Scuttle across the peel, scuffle with gravity, then decked
Leave a hole in your head, brain can be checked without surgery
Trepanned in sixty seconds, quicker than a Japanese train
Quicker than a hungry merchant along the new trades
An old man shaking with age, let me rattle his chain
Hope he didn’t recently change the will, it’s fate
Not deranged but arranging my kicks
If I post a murking, a million more clicks
So long suckers, put pressure on an Andrex square stymy the bleeding.
I’m collecting ritual rudiments
Compiling a map of arcane sites using Dúchas
You’re on set tracks, there and back, Luas tram
I’m a pathless butterfly in flight, suas suas suas
Dancing after we ate, I could be pregnant eight months
No orchestrating, kettles boiling and settling toilet chains
We imagine ourselves flameclothed in Versailles
Everyone fixed to our minuet
Sashay into the room, human sugar sweet as a bear toward thunders.
Alchemisland 
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