TribblesBestFriend

Women of the world or street So very often just the same I love every one I meet Have they fame or be they plain

Down to the last stupid cow I praise with every word I utter I'm disgusted by men now With their morals from the gutter

'Cause there's no woman in this land Quite as stupid as her brother No or so vain or underhand Except, maybe, Madame Thatcher

Lady I love you now, I do 'Cause when a sport becomes a war There's no girls, or very few Amongst those fans who yell for more

Those fanatics of the games Beer and hate just make them mean They call the other side such names And make such calls on their own teams

There is no female hooligan Imbecilic, filled with murder No, not even in Britain Except, for sure, Madame Thatcher

I love woman just because When she's sitting at the wheel There's no man-like sense of loss No urge to kill is yours to feel

For a slightly damaged headlight Or for two fingers in the air There are those who wish to fight To the death if they but dare

An "up yours" their favourite sign There's no woman so vulgar To use this symbol all the time Except, perhaps, Madame Thatcher

How I love you, dear woman You don't go to war to die Because the vision of a gun Does not make you pant and sigh

With those hunters of the night Who turn on creatures that are frail Or retire on their gun sight I've yet to see a female

There is no woman low enough To spit and polish a revolver Just to feel so bloody tough Except, for sure, Madame Thatcher

The atom bomb was never made By a human female brain And no female hand has slayed Those U.S. peoples of the plain

Palestinians and Armenians Bear their witness form the grave That a genocide is masculin Like a SS or a Green Beret

In this bloody mass of man Each assassin is a brother There's no woman rival them Except, of course, Madame Thatcher

And lastly Woman, above all I love your gentleness so mild A man draws strength from his own balles Which like his gun he shoots from wild

And when the final curtain draws He'll join the cretins in the harvest Playing football, playing wars Or who can piss the farthest

I would join the doggic host And love my days on earth As my day to day lampost I would use Madame Thatcher