Windy Miller's Wank

Camberwick Green has a place in history,

For the characters there are shrouded in mystery,

With large eyes to see but no mouths to speak,

The description could fit a DNA freak,

But panic ye not for they’re helpful and kind,

In fact they’re nicest of people you could wish to find, 

But the most remarkable feature sent from heaven above,

Is they all have hands shaped like an oven glove,

They wave and signal but do little more,

The lack of digits seems a fundamental flaw,  

With no fingers to point or to take a firm grip,

Frustration could start a quivering lip,

But they manage to do what they have to do,

Like eating and drinking and going to the loo,

There’s a doctor with a beard and a very tall hat,

And there are pills in his bag for this and for that,

There’s a captain of the guard, who shouts very loud,

And in his red uniform he looks very proud,

There’s a mayor in chains that are made of gold

And a lady flower seller, who is terribly old,

There’s a postman in a uniform oh so blue,

And a carpenter, a baker and a farmer too,

But the best character of all lives in a mill,

Just outside the village on a small hill,

With his living devoted to making bread,

He sacrificed his life and never got wed,

As the wind turns the sails his heart does warm,

For the mill means more than any female form,

Lonely days and even lonelier nights,

Are spend just thinking of conjugal rights,

But on ‘special’ nights when thoughts drift from work,

And a stirring of motion begins neath his shirt,

And as that millers smock starts to resemble a tent,

Caused by feelings and urges that are paradise sent,

For tonight it not the corn he’s going to grind,

And with such large eyes he’s unlikely to go blind,

So as Windy Miller begins to do what’s needed now?  

I have but one question to ask, and that is… ‘How’?