Alchemisland

Hi, I’m Mike and I’m a corruption sponge.

What else explains satisfactorily my ill gains

Despite all the pain I’ve caused, the wrong I’ve done.

Blood on the illuminated pages rubies in the sun,

The monk rather erupted,

He who oft spoke up when another evoked hush.

That work is never done, of turning to dust

All wonders worth desire’s easy trust.

Bunged up, again, due to my thunderous bong lust

Dedicated readers will hardly adjust their readers

At mention of my consistently tended weed need

Wheezing’s the price, so I’m gunky with gunj and ganja done it

Lungs tar effaced, eyes sufficiently red to comprise a punnet

Composing sigh-provoking puns, to cloak my darker purpose

My spliff looks like a cor anglais, around my way call it a janky turbot

Plain Ford car in place, driver from Ballyfermot called Dermot waiting

Collecting faraways off private planes. Drops right to the gate

Right honourables and right ballaches amongst those I call mates

Shotcaller unafraid to tempt fate

Pinpoint the second he’s catching this fade.