The Blue Moon Women

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The Blue Moon Women Turned Wise by Greying Poems
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Sing bog cotton carols, speak
in soft whisperings,
blow cool wind  to calm summer’s  heat,
clawing gloopy smells of faded day.
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Their suitcases laughing,
filled with cruciform spinning tops
songs and incantations
a flock of giggling  goats.
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They frighten  indoctrinated bombosities
shiny political pomposities
yellow beasts wandering
whose paws choke the night
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To de-indoctrinate them
from that cronied sycophant in them
they’re impaled on Celtic Crosses
and left swirling on the bog.
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The Blue Moon Women sing to them
soft and sweet they sing to them
and the goats circle round
nibbling at their toes.
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Till they squeal out all their vanity
return to normal sanity
and serve the people properly
walking humbly down the roads.
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