Scant relief
Burning through weed and weedy Sin Eaters
Who enter eager but depart defeated misdemeanour-beleaguered,
Having trekked the requisite leagues to my evil peak,
Where voice stealing winds dream of flutes
And the many uses to which they should turn tools
Such as the hands gifted to, grafted onto, human fools.
Liver bin fit with gin and vin abuse
About my heart, a giant-carved escutcheon introduces nuisances
To the marble hardness of my chainmail affections;
My plated pate painted by the sun’s saint-highlighting abundances.
Alchemisland 
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