The Lord of this world died tonight at twelve past midnight
None permitted entry, save family and friends from the Gentry
From after-silent maw one snake warning sigh jailbroke, rattle-addled,
Filling the room like adulation upon an idol’s entry
Like gas due injurious inhalation
Upon a spectacle century’s applaudnow end.
He loved horses, that you may know, often riding at village shows
Or along the windy, rocky, cow-plotted, potholed roads
Adjoining Móneela and his stately home New Rhodes
He served ably, village labourers to tend his granges
To some frustrating but none here were strangers, but one:
That demesne’s pale Lord, deranged behind a smiling face.
At a difficult day’s end he would send away his household
Take book, candle and blanket to the back of the house
And set up camp alongside his pals, and would stay up late
Rubbing their blazes, conducting full on conversations in the stables
Speaking gently, dear boy he called them; his best a sable-maned bay.
Alchemisland 
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