I am not turned on by windmills

I am not turned on by windmills
I do not rush up to them moaning
To ask for the trade winds
To caste me adrift in distant seas.

Windmills made of crackling shells
That Sail across the gossiping sand
With little green eyes in the windows
Making clever wisecracks.

As porcupine giants uproot them
From their chessboard flatland
To find the pearly dice that run
Through the laundry baskets

One begins to cry aloud
Or is it the soul of a seagull
Out of the ether, there’s a bodiless voice
that says it’s time to go up to windmill land.

I had a beer on Monday night
I ignored the windmills turning
On Saturday night: the Final Score
But I listened to Sergeant Pepper

That was my thanks for living
That was my relaxation
That’s my lonely hearts club fun
After a week being on the run

Giant windmills approach me
Now they’re up too close
They swipe at me with pliers
They pull out all my teeth

I’m not afraid of windfarms
With their dragons tied on a leashes
As Mona Lisa waves goodbye
From the ships gang-plank

I’m not afraid of windfarms
But you have to pay a price
For writing words of fire-wind
For carrying over the difference

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