Why can’t energy be spent
In other ways than in killing?
Mary, your Mother doesnt have to
Do this type of thing for a living.
She’d rather he doing the can-can
For some exotic man from the east
Or trembling a delicate fan
While others froth like yeast.
She’d rather be a china teapot
On a provincial Parsons shelf,
As an antique worth quite alot
But loved for beauty, not wealth.
She’d rather be a boy scout
On an outing in a cave
Or a well loved singing trout
Who drunk herself to the grave.
She’d rather be a tarantula
On the look out for a lover
Or a dolly named Petula,
Whose body is made of rubber.
She’d rather be a volcano
Whose gossip is scalding hot
Or be as pretty as a marigold
Being pissed on by a fox.
So, Mary, put your knickers on!
There’s no tea for you tonight.
Your Mother’s not a martyr,
So please don’t set her alight.
Its not that I’m narrow minded
Lawd, gawd blimey, No!
But I’ve seen saints be blinded
For putting their feelings on show.
And count your natural disasters!
It started getting out of bed.
I once was friends with a spider
Who lived in a room in my head.
The world is your discovery.
You’ve been told its rude to stare,
Modest and reactionary
It’s ruder still to care.
And justify your existence
By claiming you don’t exist.
Substance is such a nuisance,
Especially when you’re pissed.
Your Mother expects the worst,
Your Mother’s an optimist.
She curtsies to passing hursts,
Very rarely she hisses.
Your Mother’s baked cup cakes
Are the terrorists delight.
To vent frustration and hate,
She talks a load of tripe.
Mary, your Mother is shocked!
The joy that she’s suffered for you!
If you were a priest, she’d have you defrocked.
Your Mother lies like the truth.
So exorcise the Devil,
We don’t want his type here.
Mary, stop your screaming,
You’re green and shaking in fear.
So count your natural feelings,
There’s need and jealousy and pride.
Mary, your breath is reeking
Like something inside you has died.
My stare is strawberry jelly,
It’s all a party, all fun!
Me and my monstrous belly,
Not to mention my bum.
I’ll fly like a drunken butterfly
And die in someone’s collection.
Is that a splint that glints in your eye?
Don’t touch for fear of infection.
So, Mary, put your knickers on
And bugger off to bed
Your Mother doesn’t know where she went wrong,
She’s locked herself in the shed.
She’s got a feeling this is the end.
Not because you’re horny
Not because you’re mean
Not because your Mother thinks
You’re the Fairy Queen.