This old house
With faded papered
walls
And paint flaked and
chipped
Rooms full of drafts
And murky shadowed
light
Smelling of decay and
neglect
And lifelong absence
The house needed
something
No, the house wanted
something
Amidst the cobwebs of
yesterday
And the promise of
tomorrow
The house wanted to be
a home
Furry, furry dice
Nodding dogs that nod
all day
Look out on the
motorway
With eyes that know the despair in my soul.
Hold-ups on the hills,
Stretched for miles
like bitter pills
Take a break because
tiredness kills
The signs say all
across this land
To the tune of Vincent by Don McClean
Put downs work the best
For deflecting unwanted attention
But try to be amusing
As this relieves the tension
If he says “Wow that dress looks good on you
But it would look even
better on my bedroom floor”
Just thank him and say
“No problem,
I’ll send it to you
when I don’t wear it anymore”
British girls abroad
Fake tanned
Everything on display
Easy virtue
Easy lay
Begging for it?
Gagging for it?
Looking for it?
Perhaps not
But they know the way
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown,
Tapping at the window and crying through the lock,
Come on everyone and look at my - undergarments
Are you wearing anything at all?
When you make a phone
call
From your big desk in
the study
Do you sit there in
the nuddy
I certainly pictured
you that way
When you called me the
other day
Are you sporting a Brazilian?
I think you might be
Gillian
I don’t think you have
a silly’n
Not like your kid
sister Lillian
Who leans towards a
Chilean
Or your older sister
Jillian
With her moustachioed
Sicilian
No, I think you my
daring Gillian
Might well have a
Brazilian
Which is probably a
chilly’n
