III
Oh ducky, what happens after me dear, to the mocked
And afflicted char ladies, who wife the researches
Into the size of individuals, the thick and the thin,
In the slaughterhouse of marriage and the mantelpiece
Tired, but still going strong, the butter-fly, combs
The rocks of the digestive system and the inner psyche
Sipping the nectar of the necropolis, then thriving
Like paddockstools, sucking nourishment from shite
Capping lewis with daughters and poisoning the future
What I really want is a spice girl to come out and declare
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