Truth seek and funeral.
See-through and dutiful
As a ghost dog, solely logged by those necronomically attuned,
Who, when jus-imbued, so rudely chewed the legs of your unit.
I didn’t see you at the Shrew’s funeral.
I suppose that, from Dewsbury, our yew-buried home appears rural.
Gooseberry bitter my heart. Kept yards apart, at acral,
Yardarm’s distance from my heart. My wards thwart charms.
Ill-regarding slim feeling kin to ideas of divine fashioning.
No. Ramshackle house my mousey Saturnine heart’s home
Which never shouts but inaudibly farts its wants to no one.
Alone shackled by manmade passions.
The slow slave inured his lash
Lasts as long as an unthrown but pinless grenade.
Alchemisland 
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