Miss Maggie (2)

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 you-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