Alchemisland

Turning kush bushels into tons of gold bullion

Push it hard until I get an ulcer, bard with a sore stomach

Most can’t stomach what I summon, good at sums, no bluster

Summing up I fill a venti cup with cum to prove I cut mustard

Pass muster, present flutters by to become the past

Sounds of thunder cutting across mountain passes

I’m in my kitchen holding the kettle, forehead egg brittle

Have a little guess who did it, it wasn’t Colonel Mustard

Sophist profiting from false arguments 

Softest snow falling in my garden

Noiseless revamping, carved out lands scattered and askance.