Alchemisland

How cruelly blazes the lazymaking sun upon wayward sons

Built for throwing haymakers, one armed bail tossers

While the sun shines the Irish will make hay, bossless

But they will do anything asked if the demander sounds a toff

Called tossers at home, here we are credited as workers to bone

Foam’s deadly toss; the sick pregnant belly; the widowing cold

Retold seemed costly tithes but worthwhile

Behold, see how the tome I hold

Once ghosten with unwriting’s daunting paleness now bold

And bruised and junkie spoonback black with poems

Those wild geese, enprimed ephebes which stifling Ireland seconds

No unguent swathes the blistered carapace

The onioned face lined like an ogham grave.