Heatreader’s mercury ominously sank down
A dank, filthy evening over which vile, brittle-maned Horae crook proudly
The angstridden husbandmen and dying commoners leave no accounts
Leafless trees, long lines of toothless fleariddens fleeing
Empty streets no sounds
Mercury sat frowning
His meagre allowance drowned
The King sat down, stable but for his straightening cane
And lost his crown, never to be retrieved or worn again.
Much gained, much lost
None will be saved, holy or not
They have travelled many knots
It cannot be for naught
It cannot be, it cannot be; it is not what you thought
What I sought ill matches what I got
Seeds I secreted, the seeker’s crop
All I want, hardly a drop in the wider blue yonder.
Alchemisland 
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