Her band was made up of many cool members. Cecil on drums; he wore a cut down decades old Sisters of Mercy t-shirt bought from Jason, old blue jeans and scuffed boots. Jason noticed this and elbowed Craig in the ribs and drunkenly grinned to his mate,

“That’ll do wonders for my business!” On bass was Ronnie. A full-length leather jacket made him look like an undertaker. Underneath he wore nothing but leather hot pants. Boys and girls alike loved this and thought he looked a million dollars. Then there was guitarist Sunny wearing his studded motorbike jacket with the

picture of a speeding snail painted on the back (this was Sandra’s handiwork, she was too busy making love to a random lad she had picked up to notice). Sunny had black leather combat trousers on and massive gothic boots with chrome toecaps that glittered in the

light. Finally there was Snot the keyboard player, he had a plain white t-shirt on and black leather jeans backed up by combat boots.

In a dark alley
Behind The Rex
Mary Carey executed her ex
Dumped him by the side of the street
Revenge was sweet
She cut off his head
Collecting his thoughts in a black plastic bag.

Took it home and showed her Mother
Who took Mary to the attic
And showed her the others
“You did all this?” gasped Mary Carey
“No, some of them are Nana’s
And Great-Grandma’s too
There’s allsorts here
*****, ***** buggers every one
Christian, Jew and Hindu.
Men, they’re all the same.”
Which would be nice if you were talking world peace.

Mary Carey had a daughter
And, in an attempt to break the family tradition,
Gave her away to the nuns at the Mission
Grown, they sent her to Rome.
Where, in St Peter's Square
She bedded
Deaded then
Beheaded every man who tried to kiss her
Leaving behind a trail of bloodied mitres
And a pile of bin liners that might have been tied tighter.
“Can’t stop
Myself.”
And off she popped in search of other buggers.

But the plastic bags in St Peter’s Square are suppurating
And, far away from the Catholics,
The collected thoughts of de-bodied Protestant
Muslim, Hindu, Rastafarian and Jewish men
Are flatulating through the puckered ***-holes of untidily tied knots.
Some smell of roses
Some of Forget-Me-Nots
Of Valentine’s bouquets
A lot of them smell like old ashtrays.

And one or two of rotten apples.
These waft across the polished toecaps of young girls
And leave a nasty stain.
***** minds:
They're all the same.