Alchemisland

Shortbread season Shot dead for leaving me short bread Barely need a reason, hanging on by a thread Ill bred, hell bent for leather Got the thrill meds and less sense than a lobotomised head.

Hams, won’t get caught Throw hands, got all you sought Doing coke, did it all Eightballs barely give me pause Eight short for me doesn’t hit at all.

Took shrooms for a buzz Brought me wanted hush Ushered to the room above To the posthuman eruptions An ill-humoured dove, who spoke Russian, ministered on rushed love Hushed and constantly snubbed, the voiceless trayhoister Makes his one and only noise.

I’m the boy, the boss The proff take no loss No hat doffed when a churchline’s crossed Hacked the head off a cross, flipped it Now I’ve got a cryptic gloss Keep hatches below and above You never know from what direction they’ll come They’ll stab your back as soon as shrug, Soon as show…