Though I publish often, few who read remain glued to seats
Walking quiet, rubbish-strewn streets at witchhyper three
Clockhands that time denoting poised to free
A fireball, flames blue and green
Call that mixture cyan, you see
I listened to a podcast, since removed from BBC
About dicyanin dye enabling soldiers to see
Ghosts and demons breaking free
Last thing one needs when Charlie mimics trees
He says still as a frieze
Even under foul tortures threat, with stilled knee.
Alchemisland 
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