Chipper old women and giggling, 

jelly-chinned children—
everyone else is as lost as a 
cross-eyed god abandoned 
at raucous Walpurgisnacht, groping
through floundering ducks for prospective
lottery numbers and half-baked maxims cracked
from the anise-lapped bellies of olms and efts,
left laughing at anything daring to fillip an
exit sign, and teasing from leathery breasts
of the geminied banshees chained to the
piqued, hysterectomied belfry nothing more
saccharine, tactless, and pitifully scribbled than
what cold ode, what rubbing rubbed ruddy in
condoms and latex gloves flossed over an 
oak stump, trellised with tresses of brambling,
pea-green bumbershoots, curled out, cup-like,
cudding the gruff guff ghastly gadabouts spritz
and distilling it all into fishladdered simpers
and sentiments cannonballed over the garden wall