My projections
At the current rate of injection and ingestion, six months I’ll be dead
No question, hearse led to graveyard pebbles by sable-hair equestrians
People who thought I wasn’t on the level’ll have me in mentions
Speak me I might arrive like the devil
I couldn’t stop thriving if I try, Candyman two and three quarter times
Don’t need a bigger circle, this one’s fine
My best mate’s nine foot in height,
With hot dog skin and a trident.
Alchemisland 
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