We work-to-rule, we're molls,
We are not unfeeling dolls,
Molls don't make extra cuppas for you,
We write our own rules to suit,
It's up to you to not be rude,
I say, "Pappa don't preach!" to you,
Molls write lots of rules,
They've got their own cooking school,
We cook when we want to,
The world is not run for you,
Yes, molls now have  work-to-rules.

(To the tune of "Like a ******'.)
Not a ******,
Queen of the molls,
Not a ******,
So I've been told,
Not a ******,
I'm like, well, old,
Not a ******,
Please stop your moans,
Not a ******,
That's why men are alone,
Not  a ******,
I'm like, well, old,
Not a ******,
So I 've been told,
Not a ******,
You sound like a ***,
Get over it!!!!!

Yes, it's International Women's Day,
Let's all celebrate our own day,
I didn't hear that, what did you say?
Oh, yes, I'm an f.....ing moll again,
Yes, in Oz, it's f....ing Molls' Day!
With our philosophies of molls,
Molls' non-participation protocols,
You know what great-grandma said?
"Bullies don't get!" get that in your head,
Yes, Molls' management rules, I say,
Let's celebrate International Women's Day,
Now in Oz, it's f.....ing Molls' day,
With a smile, of course, that's the way,
Smile, babes, this could be you one day!!!!

F.....ing molls, f....ing molls,
We cook your food and wash your clothes,
F.....ing molls, f.....ing molls,
No wonder you **** your own blip,
You are so full of it.....

I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard
nil by nil by nil feet
How to describe a sensation such as heat
to them? The interminable sun and so on
I wonder if they understand that
Light itself is not heat

whereupon the bell sounds
their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air

I look at a Dupuytren in the room
Cord around the chair
His clothes hanging off him
Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair
From his eyes

My room looks out beyond the yard
It is high up - precarious
Through that picturewindow, the world without
is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown
spires and roofing
I see my own sadness, my impotence
In every inch of the heights

the girls come back, propping black bikes against
the gate;
my legs are wrapped in a blanket
and I feel nothing below my waist

Through a system of cables and consent
my companion molls in Bergonic poise
each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart
lessening
the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed

He read about Escher in bed
waiting to be plugged
unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and
unbeknownst methods
until he forgot those days in Margate
the sound of his nieces
and everything he read about Escher –


the light makes dull
the precision of the thorn