by Nick Gisburne
They seek the ancient Alchemist of Doom
Imprisoned in the bowels of the earth
But clearing out the cart to make some room
The navigator’s dog has given birth
A basket with a dozen dozy pups
Accompanies their scruffy little band
They toast the trip with wine in wooden cups
And quickly find it difficult to stand
The quest begins, or will do, fairly soon
Tomorrow, when the omens have been read
Or, maybe, early... middle afternoon
They drain their final dregs and crawl to bed
For many days they almost... no, too late
The Alchemist of Doom will have to wait
