Alchemisland

In the sitting room with two sisters, tell who’s who because one’s hair’s blue

Unenviable job of informing them the new groom’s a stool pigeon

Sifting through shit for illness hints, grooming the stool for the kingdom

Strolled through the airport scanner, printout said malignant

For what I’m about to present, you should be sitting

A cave, or the dirty Liffey, as backdrop seems fitting

Made enough to feel certy selling in city backlots

Invested and made back lots, here they stab the back lots

Friendly but not your friend, clasp your hand as if to say it’s at an end

When they know they’re still plotting.