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| Dirty Mary |
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Dirty Mary looms at ends
of leafy lanes
Stands silhouetted on the hill, the wind
Moulding her clothing to her ample form.
She beckons besotted boys into bushes
Gazes at the columns marching by
With bovine–lustful eyes.
Among the lads her legends
Grow like toadstools, embroidered
Beyond belief. Every fantasy
Is told and retold, verbal Khama Sutra
Rippling through the ranks rampant
With what happened to a friend of a friend
At the hands of the Circe on the hill
Whom nobody has actually ever met.
Maybe she is just an Earth Mother
Watching over her flock of randy lads. |
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