Joyce and 3 plus or minus 1
Evincing patterns or too much sun?
Blooms at Eccles, minus one
Not counting his dyingdead son
A book of myriad wonders
One can scrutinize or blunder through
A bland literature it thundered through
It was torn apart, torn and thrown askew
Skewered and lambasted, dubbed smut unfit to view
Just because of dirty words, a few, and people taking poohs
Don’t we all do it? Yes, yes we all do
Scrotumtightening sea, green not blue
Bloom with his hand down his trousers, a lame lady’s fanny in view
But onto deeper mystery we must move
Into another chamber let us remove
My rumpled crumpled sleuth’s outfit I smooth down
Pacing around the room with my pipe, smoke gushing out
A hat made for flushing deer out
Some find it bruising, others amusing
It will hardly make the news but a name we must now choose:
Who there in brown mackintosh marches the margins? A muse?
The book equivalent of a visible member of a film crew?
That moreso would be true, William’s name is the clue.
Perhaps more explanation is due,
But that most of the fun removes.
Alchemisland 
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