It has been a while, yes, and no, this is not a new story from me (although I'm quite certain that if anyone was waiting, they stopped long time ago), but here, have a poem from the strange place that is my head.

P.S.: I know it's not a limerick.

The mirror that hangs on the wall of the shop
Is very strange — it never stops
Showing reflections
Of imperfect perfection
That reflect whatever happens in the shop

Take this man, buying a book and a beer
He’s all the time making it clear
That he’s quite sure
He’s bit of a bore
That like every other man — he drinks beer

The mirror that hangs on the wall in the back
But shows us his picture, without a crack
Not a man of inexpensive taste
But a woman, with feminine waist
And proper curves in the front and the back

And thus is each man in his own strange ways revealed
What every one of them ever concealed
And in other ways strange
Ofttimes deranged
What each woman tried to hide — revealed

The mirror that hangs in the back of the universe
Is always true, showing diverse
Confused reflections
Of past tense perfections
That mix the worlds of our own private universe

Therefore a man with a woman in their travels
Are mixed up together and ground into gravel
That with some grit
And a whole lot of spit
Builds a new woman and a man for their travels

And the man — now a woman forever to be
Will marry a man offered on a bended knee
Who was always quite certain
With his love behind curtain
He would never care who she used to be

The mirror that hangs in the soul of our hearts
Is a product of some strange mystical arts
For without a fail
The men turn female
And follow the desire of their hearts