Masked Molly’s Ballad

The masked theme is, apparently, still running.

Along came Molly with her handbag and a brolly

And a mask to cover all and any fears,

At five foot ten she socked it to the men

Who reduced any woman down to tears.

Half brick in the bag, she was no one’s hag,

An avenger with a twinkle in her eye

Hidden by the mask, enjoying each and every task

And that, my friends, I’m telling is no lie.

Strutting on the street, she greeted all she met

With a jolly jape for all who hailed her friends,

Legs up to her neck, brolly held erect

Baton, nightstick, brolly use no end.

Patrollers when they viewed presumed that she was new

A lady of the night with fetish weird,

Mask, bag, brolly, a monumental dolly,

Confidence exuding, nothing feared.

Men who asked the way or offered her to pay

Were directed to the ladies, caution told

‘Be good to my sisters,’ warning all the misters,

Some there were who answered, brash and bold,

‘I’ll treat them how I please once I get them on their knees,

I’m paying so I get to do my thing’,

Then Molly got real close and whispered, nose to nose

They scurried off, ne’er seen in parts again.

The misters who were keen, abstained from being mean,

Were surprised when Molly shook their hands and squeezed,

For Molly was a dude just doing what he could

To balance equality displeased.

A brolly laden maiden with a brick inside her bag,

A crushing hand, a mask that hid her growth,

Legs that went for miles, an empathetic smile,

Ex-copper, superhero light on toes.

Now Molly was a mister who’d had a little sister

Who’d embraced the oldest trade since time began,

He didn’t judge the men though he took no shit from them,

Bitch-slapping hypocrites as only superheroes can.

Watch out for Big Molly, a mister-sister dolly,

Protector of all women, punters too,

As long as there’s this trade, mister-sisters should

Remember Molly loved his sister, just like you.

Gallant At Last Gate

So, gallant rides again, bestows

in gracing, a nod to confidence,

astride on trust, gallops wildly,

rampant, colours waving,

votive with a shield to favour just.

Pennant at the ready, legs astriding

more powerful, more honourable

than he, the carried carried

by the patient equine, no

pure-bred here but mighty

mustang, steed, alert to all

antiquity, his forebears,

those donkeys, mules,

a brethren yoked from yore,

mighty carries meagre

in his tidings, the faithful breed,

the yeoman evermore, till

fence or hedge or obstacle

just too high, an ask

to task a barrier too far,

rears he up, resists insistent

urging, refuses at the gate,

bronco at core, wild at heart,

never more a gelding,

impatient hooves aspark’d

upon cement, ride your horses,

oh ye gallant gentry, on softer ground

or risk unseating,

ungentlemanly government.

A Loveless Cup – hypocrisy

I couldn’t quite decide which way to go with the loving cup so you get two for the price of one. Whether you like it or not! It’s a bargain. 🙂

The Quaich – a loving cup

A bit less loving in its purpose here below………

***************************************************************

And so they lifted lips to gilded vessel,

Sips they shared, the wine a loving cup,

Drank a toast to trust and to their unions,

Fashioned fealties, supped with every drop.

Sacrificed simplicity to beggared,

Adornments guilt-edged, paths of royalty,

Fettered by encroaching ways and tethered,

Love ceded to complex hypocrisy.

 

Keepers Of The Family Jewels

P.1 Oops!

P.2 What now?

P.1 I think I’ve dropped the economy…

P.2 Fuck! Not again!

P.1 It wasn’t my fault. (whiny voice inserted)

P.2 Well, we know it wasn’t your fault! It’s no fucker’s fault…never is. Just remember that line. Spin it and do the best you can to clean this mess up. It looks like you’ve whipped a tablecloth out from beneath the Thanksgiving table….what a mess. And hide that broken gravy boat or there’ll be hell to pay with the keepers of the family jewels.

P.1 The Royal Family?

P.2 (rolls eyes) No, Joe Public. Very attached he is to small mementoes and little matters like traditions and the family table.

P.1 He’s half the problem. Always wanting more and needing taken care of. If it weren’t for him and all his welfare needs I could make a much better job of this.

P.2 Sure you could, handsome. You just keep telling yourself that. And him.

P.1 But it’s true! He’s always looking for a free ride and needing health care and wages and stuff.

P.2 Hmmhmm. That’s right, so he is. Cheek of him, eh? Imagine him wanting us to spend his money on stuff he wants. What a liberty!

P.1 Well, it is. He doesn’t understand the global, socio-economic, political spectrum…

P.2 Neither do you. That’s why you keep dropping the damn thing. It’s slippery. Just try to keep a firm grip on the handle and not drop it again…at least, for a while.

P.1 But it’s broken now beyond repair. (eyeing fragments on the floor). What will I tell them? What’ll I do? (desperate whiny voice)

P.2 (covering ears) Stop with the whining already. It’s painful to listen to. And, if Joe hears it, we’ll all be up the creek without the thingies.

P.1 (can’t help hmself) But, what will I say?

P.2 Make a statement. Here, I have one prepared…I knew this was gonna happen again. I’ll get onto the banks and corporations, have a word with the other masters and get a replacement gravy boat ordered.

P.1 (scanning statement) Oh, this is good….tightening belts, living within means, stringent measures…Although it seems a bit familiar…

P.2 (rolling eyes) Yeah, well it would do. You made the same statement last time. I just rehashed it for you.

P.1 Aw, yeah! D’uh! I’d forgotten.

P.2 Well, let’s hope Joe Public has. Let’s go. We have a country to run….

(mumbles) ….into the ground.

(lights fade to shadow)

 

 

Hypocritical?

Eighteen year old boyo returned home tonight proudly presenting a new set of speakers for his I-Pod. Including a bass speaker. Wonderful. We’ve all long criticised the quality of some of the docking stations that have seen their way through this house. Never enough bass and the sound quality can be quite tinny. I hate that. Really discourages loud music playing.

I like my music loud. If I’m doing housework (if) I want to be able to hear my music from room to room. When Freddie Mercury is encouraging me to think that ‘I want to break free’ then I want to hear him. If I’m singing my heart out to ‘Who wants to live forever?’ I like the volume turned up.

It’s not that I don’t like quiet music. I do. But I really enjoy it loud and then I can feel it too, thrumming through my body and making me dance. Might be a generational thing and the types of bands listened to in the past. And present, if I’m honest.

A lot of what my kids like I like too. But not all of it. And vice versa. Which might be why sometimes they come home when I’m busy ‘doing housework’ – dancing counts as long as there’s a hoover attached to one hand – well, it does! and tell me that my music is waaay too loud.

So, I’m feeling a bit hypocritical tonight ‘cos I enjoyed David’s demonstration of his new speakers earlier. But now, I want to go and stick them where the sun don’t shine. His room is right above mine. And I can hear and feel every vibration. He has half an hour more then I’m gonna pull rank!

And now the Glesca Mammy is out.

Before submitting this post I made two phone calls. To two of my children. To ask permission to post what is here. They both gave me the thumbs up.

Below is a word for word response that I made in comment on a blog post in OM’s Project O http://aopinionatedman.com/category/project-o/. I will not include the blog post itself.

‘My twenty year old daughter told me recently that she read of a poll conducted where one of the questions asked was, ‘When did you choose to be straight?’ The response given was, ‘I didn’t choose. I was born that way.’
However you perceive homosexuality in terms of the bible and the love of Jesus, there surely must be room to question whether anyone – anyone – born with whatever actual or perceived ‘disability’ has the same human rights as another?
I have seven children. I am a practising Roman Catholic. I have two gay children – one of each. Lucky me. For it allows me to practise what I preach – that all men and women are born equal. That God’s love is for all.
There may be some mystery attached as to why some people are born gay but until that mystery is revealed to me by the grace of God’s wisdom, I will love and defend the rights of all people.
Perhaps He chose to make it so to determine whether our love and sense of equality is all-inclusive or selective.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts. They were most enlightening.x’

If you want to argue human rights, try me. Just try me. These are my children we are talking about just as all gay people are someone’s children. Just as all gay people are people. You might not like it, you might not understand it. But it’s here and they’re born that way.

I can only conclude that I am in awe at how selective people can be in matters pertaining to human rights. So long as you are the right colour, nationality, creed, gender, sexual orientation. I am gobsmacked. Utterly gobsmacked.