Alchemisland

Howl out that I’m determined

In tournament with the sun

The serpent and the Son

My sermons full of puns

Pushing aside my

Old servile manners in favour of new ones.

No more am I

A tithe-crushed serf

Contentedly carried to whatever isle and end.

No more will I support any carrioner’s diet;

I am that surf which crests the tide

Which sunshine arresting made

Breasting threatening waves

The unpale spirit, much decayed since the days of creation

Skates still along the blade-rilled rink of the deep he made by thinking

Goodbye to all that, time to be tactless

Let every back be an unarmoured targe into which my arrows thwack

Talladega speeds, no more taking it easy

Not yet night yet

Canis Major shines approvingly o’er our escapade

Cans and twenty major Inshallah

In Tallaght more these days

Taliban how everybody hides their faces

Tell the van with satellites and listening devices

That I’m finishing up for the day

If they fancy a tea break or greasy pizza slices

From the track circled Square’s one-star Four Star

Come prepared, they clog rooms just to hear the compére

A more dogged Achilles at the keel

Of a heaving trireme, heel to repair

Fail to prepare prepare to fail

What one has sown one later yields

In the heart and mind and home and forum and market, as in the field.