Yes, it's International Women's Day,
Let's all celebrate our own day,
I didn't hear that, what did you say?
Oh, yes, I'm an f.....ing moll again,
Yes, in Oz, it's f....ing Molls' Day!
With our philosophies of molls,
Molls' non-participation protocols,
You know what great-grandma said?
"Bullies don't get!" get that in your head,
Yes, Molls' management rules, I say,
Let's celebrate International Women's Day,
Now in Oz, it's f.....ing Molls' day,
With a smile, of course, that's the way,
Smile, babes, this could be you one day!!!!

We work-to-rule, we're molls,
We are not unfeeling dolls,
Molls don't make extra cuppas for you,
We write our own rules to suit,
It's up to you to not be rude,
I say, "Pappa don't preach!" to you,
Molls write lots of rules,
They've got their own cooking school,
We cook when we want to,
The world is not run for you,
Yes, molls now have  work-to-rules.

F.....ing molls, f....ing molls,
We cook your food and wash your clothes,
F.....ing molls, f.....ing molls,
No wonder you **** your own blip,
You are so full of it.....

(To the tune of "Like a ******'.)
Not a ******,
Queen of the molls,
Not a ******,
So I've been told,
Not a ******,
I'm like, well, old,
Not a ******,
Please stop your moans,
Not a ******,
That's why men are alone,
Not  a ******,
I'm like, well, old,
Not a ******,
So I 've been told,
Not a ******,
You sound like a ***,
Get over it!!!!!

I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard
nil by nil by nil feet
How to describe a sensation such as heat
to them? The interminable sun and so on
I wonder if they understand that
Light itself is not heat

whereupon the bell sounds
their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air

I look at a Dupuytren in the room
Cord around the chair
His clothes hanging off him
Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair
From his eyes

My room looks out beyond the yard
It is high up - precarious
Through that picturewindow, the world without
is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown
spires and roofing
I see my own sadness, my impotence
In every inch of the heights

the girls come back, propping black bikes against
the gate;
my legs are wrapped in a blanket
and I feel nothing below my waist

Through a system of cables and consent
my companion molls in Bergonic poise
each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart
lessening
the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed

He read about Escher in bed
waiting to be plugged
unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and
unbeknownst methods
until he forgot those days in Margate
the sound of his nieces
and everything he read about Escher –


the light makes dull
the precision of the thorn

Don't call women ***** and molls,
Who, indeed, makes girls so?
Eve always gets the blame, you know,
So, if a man turns a girl into his **,
Does that make him a stud or a ******?
What a double standard, lo,
A world of molls and gigolos!

The dreamer can see and understand how the mountain may hold out a welcoming hand to the climber who wishes to get to the top
and as the dreamer sees this he also looks at a flat piece of land and sees castles with shimmering towers made from sand.
But the dreamer becomes the dream that's within the fin of a fish that swims by
and the tortoise that sits high on the hog
or the dog with a tick.
Take your pick
there are so many dreams given free
what dream do I see as I look in the toothpaste?
A wasteland and more towers growing out the sand with fingers that tickle me
another fish swimming by in the sea
and golfballs where nobody dances
A room full of romance where the lights all burn dim
one more fin on a fish
I wish it could last
but the best is what passed on the wings of a shirt
or the long flowing skirts of Victorian dolls.

Gangsters and Molls and big Packard cars
Jelly tots that play on the moons circulating like blood round the planets and Mars which is red(so it is said)
even in dreams can't get that into my head.
The dreamer and know it alls
and poets that fall into fantasy and wander free through the white picket fences
offending no one
and offering scope only for white horses and unicorns in freeforming ballet scenes with Jack and his magic beans
have seen but a part of the heart of the matter and that's no matter at all.
Drop off the edge and take a fall with me into a meringue of sheer lunacy and let us see what we see and if it isn't really there
why should we care.
To be fair some people can't understand how a castle made out of sand stands the test of time
with the tide that eats at the feet of the chair but we know it's not there
just imagination and the patience to look and like the words in a book that can conjure up a genie or Jack with a beanie hat or a cat that never sat on a mat but a throne.
These things I have seen and have known and have grown fond of the older I get and the mountain I climb is even yet getting taller
or perhaps it is me getting smaller.

I ramble so slightly
twice nightly
and three times on Bank Holidays
at time and a third.
One day I don't hope to recover my senses
leave me to the horses and white picket fences
I'm happy.

I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it.

Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare?
The touch of her skin as she lays bare?

Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue?

Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes?

I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet.

Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms?

Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her *******? Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best?

Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie?

Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes?

Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor?

     It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight?

     One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't.

     Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage?

     Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare;
aligned teeth, sharp nose;
tan skin, shaved brows;
waxed legs, hefty breast;
mild touch, sweet caress;
cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall;
flamboyant voice, and foxy lips?
What about molls and vagrant rips?

     To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis?

Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a ****--
Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal--
Does beauty still nest on them?

     I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound.

     To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.

i thank you most for your amazing soul
;for how you heard how eyes would move when words
like faithandhopeandlove look less absurd
if gathered as a group of nothing's goal

your cambridge soul unfurnished but for love
for prosties with a heart, the gangster molls,
the corner louts in bars, and wealthy trolls
who wandered drunk through parlors where you moved

seeking answers asking questions beautiful
finding lonely large and self by sea
any/noone humans merely be-
ing flames of making burning blue and cool

you opened eyes of eyes and ears of ears
with words that shook the mountains of the years

Who really has world power?
Think on this while you shower,
If you own the coffee or tea,
You own the home, prithee,
That's molls' rules, you see,
"Do you want a cup of tea?"
Our magic word is 'please',
Be nice to tea ladies,
Or there's no more coffee or tea,
Is that power, or what?
Tea ladies rule, so what!