Your style tepid, crude, unfit for the throne
My style rude lines writ upon a bone
God’s name sounds like a gurgled groan
My fortune teller a blind crone
Two hundred years living alone
Ask her to tell me where I’m going
She reads my palm, turns pale as foam
Sends me away, won’t take pay
Burnt hash sticky royally
Smoke is black, coiling
Wipe that off with a damp doily
Oily as the black stone
Diamonds in the soil
Men dying with toil.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment