Bullets pinging off
Clinker built this so-called soft machine of mine
Moloko velocet, opioid milks, sitting with dullards in silks
Operation’s octopoidal in shape
Tentacles faraway, different places
Others taking my blame
Like an Oscar Wilde bargain with a satanic painting
Cops avoiding this estate plainly
Even in plainclothes, so no one hassles us making sales
Operations for surveillance made to run away, chasing Garda with chains
Blank license plates, paintjob all sable, always the same
Racing noisy Opals like Romans at the Circus Maximus
Bet pile on the table
Ben Hur when I merge into your lane
Other drivers screaming bloody murder
I’m urging the wheelman to go further
Third can, the real man starts to emerge.
Alchemisland 
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