by Nick Gisburne
The spell was only meant to make a hole
A sneaky little portal into space
But something in the recipe I stole
Was probably a poison, out of place
To send me on a voyage to the moon
The psychedelic dynamite I made
Has tunnelled through infinity too soon
A very prickly problem, I’m afraid
In skipping past that rocky little ball
It seems I built a wormhole to the sun
In minutes, hardly any time at all
The world will feel the damage I have done
I shouldn’t think the pain will last too long
But talk to me tomorrow if I’m wrong
