The dogs' village

Silence. Absence. Stuttering. Incapability. Too much emotion. Help but the shutters are down!
WHAT'S SOLD HERE?
We debeard naughty men to make peluche toys, we clarify mermaids appointing new tails, we prescribe medications to old ladies and we make peace between generations.
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Early mornings are spent squeezing the cows, milk is gifted to a tribe of cats in confined areas.
In a mine we send humans to work everyday, the battering of their hammers on stones is used to tell the time.
We are the dogs in charge of welfare, we do the assistance.


We push the wheelchairs up to the hill and descend prompt in the arms of relatives bound to accept the incapable.
But we love the toddlers and they call us names and imitate our woof.


They appreciate our custom, we run the big pharmacy in the square and take the drops of gaiety syrup, if not in The Dog's Village you cannot live.


To participate, ticket is needed from big Mandrake man when circus comes.
Leaving sticks and heels, we send lazy breeds to ride or lean on.
And the prams are conserved in the concierge where puppies read books to children.
Blond young boy is making a puzzle of London sharing with pretty baby girl in purple dress.
Optimistic image of the city.


Since the dogs took control, crime on moped is down – English setters chase and slash their tyres.
We tend our garden, the dogs dig and hide guns in the dirt, the hideous ones forced to roll up a Sisyphus' ball and transgender fairies crawl and howl at the full moon .


We gain the fireflies fly again.