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Women of the world or streetSo very often just the sameI love every one I meetHave they fame or be they plainDown to the last stupid crowI praise with every word I utterI'm disgusted by men nowWith their morals from the gutter'Cause there's no woman in this landQuite so stupid as her brotherNor so vain or underhandExcept, maybe, Madame ThatcherLady I love you now, I do'Cause when a sport becomes a warThere's no girls, or very fewAmongst those fans who yell for moreThose with no marbles left to loseUp to here with hate and beerDeifying fools in blueInsulting bastards with a sneerThere is no female hooliganImbecilic, filled with murderNo, not even in BritainExcept, for sure, Madame ThatcherI love woman just becauseWhen she's sitting at the wheelThere's no man-like sense of lossNo urge to kill is yours to feelFor a slightly damaged headlightOr for two fingers in the airThere are those who wish to fightTo the death if they but dareAn andamp;quot;up yoursandamp;quot; their favourite signThere's no woman so vulgarTo use this symbol all the timeExcept, perhaps, Madame ThatcherHow I love you, dear womanYou don't go to war to dieBecause the vision of a gunDoes not make you pant and sighAmongst those hunters of the nightWho jump on creatures that are frailAnd occasionnally an ArabiteI've yet to see a femaleThere is no woman low enoughTo spit and polish a revolverJust to feel so bloody toughExcept, for sure, Madame ThatcherThe atom bomb was never madeBy a human female brainAnd no female hand has slayedThose U.S. peoples of the plainPalestinians or ArmeniansBear their witness form the graveThat a genocide is masculineLike a SS or a Green BeretIn this bloody mass of manEach assassin is a brotherThere's no woman to rival themExcept, of course, Madame ThatcherAnd lastly Woman, above allI love hour gentleness so mildA man draws strength from his own ballesWich like his gun he shoots from wildAnd when the final curtain drawsHe'll join the cretins in the harvestPlaying football, playing warsOr who can piss the farthestI would join the doggic hostAnd love my days on earthAs my day to day lampostI would use Madame Thatcher.
Renaud
Miss Maggie (2)
Miss Maggie (2)
Women of the world or streetSo very often just the sameI love every one I meetHave they fame or be they plainDown to the last stupid crowI praise with every word I utterI'm disgusted by men nowWith their morals from the gutter'Cause there's no woman in this landQuite so stupid as her brotherNor so vain or underhandExcept, maybe, Madame ThatcherLady I love you now, I do'Cause when a sport becomes a warThere's no girls, or very fewAmongst those fans who yell for moreThose with no marbles left to loseUp to here with hate and beerDeifying fools in blueInsulting bastards with a sneerThere is no female hooliganImbecilic, filled with murderNo, not even in BritainExcept, for sure, Madame ThatcherI love woman just becauseWhen she's sitting at the wheelThere's no man-like sense of lossNo urge to kill is yours to feelFor a slightly damaged headlightOr for two fingers in the airThere are those who wish to fightTo the death if they but dareAn andamp;quot;up yoursandamp;quot; their favourite signThere's no woman so vulgarTo use this symbol all the timeExcept, perhaps, Madame ThatcherHow I love you, dear womanYou don't go to war to dieBecause the vision of a gunDoes not make you pant and sighAmongst those hunters of the nightWho jump on creatures that are frailAnd occasionnally an ArabiteI've yet to see a femaleThere is no woman low enoughTo spit and polish a revolverJust to feel so bloody toughExcept, for sure, Madame ThatcherThe atom bomb was never madeBy a human female brainAnd no female hand has slayedThose U.S. peoples of the plainPalestinians or ArmeniansBear their witness form the graveThat a genocide is masculineLike a SS or a Green BeretIn this bloody mass of manEach assassin is a brotherThere's no woman to rival themExcept, of course, Madame ThatcherAnd lastly Woman, above allI love hour gentleness so mildA man draws strength from his own ballesWich like his gun he shoots from wildAnd when the final curtain drawsHe'll join the cretins in the harvestPlaying football, playing warsOr who can piss the farthestI would join the doggic hostAnd love my days on earthAs my day to day lampostI would use Madame Thatcher.
