Alchemisland

Don’t give me that, own brand and flat

Want proper Fanta and that’s that

Proper footfall fan would lamp ya, ya tramp ya

I’m in another league and it’s not the champions

Champing at the bit for strangers to whisper “it can’t be him”

When I walk in to buy chips in my Prussian whiskers

I want someone to whisk me away

Make me disappear, like ants struck by a grenade

All this pain, what’s it in aid of?

Resident Evil I’m afraid of, tests what you’re made of

Call a spade a spade: as a kid, my best mate fancied Ada

Anyway, I know we went off on a tangent

Like one last soliloquy, by a wordless phantom 

Back to the task at hand, namely the Fanta.