I can cook, But not for the next forty years. I want to see mammoth thighbones On plates instead of chicken giblets, So I can conk him, K.O. Xena style.

I can iron, But holes will appear in his sleeves If he doesn't lift hot metal To brand his arse with: 'I can do it; it doesn't take balls.' I love to hoover, But at times I wish the damn thing was bigger, Big enough to fit a beer belly and scrambled eggs.

I love to make love, But I'm not the missionary visionary anymore. I want to lie on red satin sheets with silver, Thin chains woven through the shine, And I want loads and loads of French black, Lacy bras with holes at the peaks, So my nipples can see what I'm doing for a change.

'Roll over Meat Head', I'm coming, Here's your Indian take-away, Hot and spicy, Hot to sizzle the beer in your guts, 'Get on down' with the onion rings, 'Get your freak on.' 'Make some noise, ooh ah.'

I'm out of here on a five-day rail trip, Dressed combat style; inside I'm slinky, A sack full of stringy lace is slung Over my love rocking hips. I can feel the bumps from Wonder Poking out like ostrich eggs, ooh, It feels good to sit on the climax of things.

The next best thing to 'fuck-you' Are ham sandwiches and slices of hard, Hard currant cake where you can find The occasional cherry. Pop.

(June 2002, © Maroula Blades)