I am in Treeged
I am in Spired
I am in Domitable
I am in Attentive
I am in Doors
I have been fired and can’t afford to speak
Stop ringing me up.I am dead.
Stop asking me about that accident last week.It was deliberate
Stop asking me to give you a cigarette.I only know the missionary position:Jesus never smoked.
I do not want to become a Christian.I don’t believe in conversion.
Stop asking if I accept my sins are forgiven.I want to suffer guilt if I do wrong.
Stop telling me Jesus was the Messiah.I don’t believe in believing
I am an unorthodox Jew so I do odd things like watching burning bushes and writing on my Tablet.I have now got a new commmandment
Do not ill treat immigrants or people you wrongly call immigrants.After all one might be the Messiah or Satan.Or me or you one day
Oh,steam iron how I love your heat And how you make my clothes so neat. A flat iron is no use to me No open fire is here,you see And though I liked the flickering coals I feared those faces that looked droll. They were in the flames and peered At anyone who ventured near. I wonder how the people past Kept their trousers neat and pressed Now I’ve bought a hand steamer To keep the germs off my femurs I didn’t like to say,my crotch, In case the devil is on watch. I never ever used to think My body perfume was distinct. And yet it may appeal to men I don’t want to try again. One dear husband is enough Though he did enjoy a cough He had asthma and bad eyes Looking out with wild surmise. He saw my golden hair float by As by his window it did fly All at once he fell for me And we sat by an apple tree. His clothes were wrinkled so I thought I would iron them for a start. He could darn and polish floors Cook lamb chops and apple cores So my steam iron sees much use I wonder if it’s self abuse For as a woman feminist I’m not meant to iron vests I’m not meant to boil men’s socks Nor their pants of interlock I’m not meant to make them tea What a naughty person,me! I must confess these strangling sins Then I’ll polish my old bin. Satan wants me down in hell Don’t say he needs my iron as well As he was an angel proud I’ll save him into One Drive Cloud
While my husband kissed me in our bed Our cat would lounge on top and lick his head No matter what gyrations that cat saw All he did was pat us with his paws The happy days of learning how to feel How to entertain with spicy meals Of walking by warm rivers hand in hand Watching coots and moorhens ,washing pans Buying an old kettle, then a house Driving out to Ongar ,stubble fires Smokey Essex cornfields, insects’ pyres Driving down the Saxon Cliffs at Hythe Soft teal Sea,Capel le Ferne, men’s eyes Happy in a cottage in the wilds I sang like some small bird, we walked for miles Kersey where the ducks bathe in the street Kissing in the hedges was so sweet Getting our own garden, growing beans Growing spinach, lettuce and snap peas Picking our blackcurrants, making tea Making jam from raspberries. yes please This proves that when you marry you need pans Cooking dinners talking with our friends Wearing jeans and hair so long it flowed My husband liked to brush it till it glowed I dream some nights my hair is still like that And how the cat slept with his paws in it How his father died and mother grieved Life is not all positive, we see. On we went and love was what we grew Though anger did rise up and strain the glue First the cat died, then my man went too Can’t I adopt a beast from Whipsnade Zoo?