(Renaud Séchan
/ J.P. Bucolo / adaptation Tim Daly)
Women of the world or streets
So very often just the same
I love every one I meet
Have they fame or be they plain
Down to the last
stupid crow
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
Nor 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
Be and hate just as they mean
They call the over 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 U.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 to rival them
Except, of course, Madame Thatcher
And lastly Woman,
above all
I love hour 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.
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