That Village with Men in it.

Fingernails were printed on a shelf of broken lips,
abused by the riverbed near Ethel's flabby thighs.
Ten and seven lovebirds were squashing on a stump,
trying to rub the edible moss on the bones in lentil soup.

My mind was made up, but I couldn't help to think,
of many dancing petticoats smiling toothless as they should be.
My mind was but a jigsaw-piece glued upon my forehead,
touching in the moon dust as Mr Piano started swinging.

Window shout! Manly men came bubbly through the cottage walls,
non-males no longer able to trade their love to equals of liver taste.
The shoehorn of the mother land didn't fit her slipper's choice
for she hoped the night was curdling as the bronze swam. The swans swim.

Manly men. Hurting eyes, with lumps of a sort of softened Satanism.
Curses. Now, why is the moon's back a scrapping peel?
My lovely's; they all soldier when the damping dusk cheats the gunnery
but I like to strut across that ridge and wear the petticoats smiling.

They showed me where the toiletries were kept, non-male was a beginner.
They killed me crossly, enjoyably so, pups were strappingly adorable.
Inside and out the gates we stamped, nibbling on some moss or love.
My fairytale curtains prevented me from slamming the village doors.