Lucky, lucky buggers, us born with a cock and balls.
When we had bikes for Christmas, you had Cindy dolls.
When I dressed up as Batman you were Goldilocks.
When I was warm in trousers, you suffered in ankle socks.
At home you did the washing, helped Mummy with the tea.
While I farted in the bath and with Daddy watched TV.

We both got qualifications, went out into the big wide world.
I got jobs with prospects, you got jobs for girls.
Training to be a temp, shorthand is a must.
You show them you’ve got promise, they hope you’ll show your bust.
They compare you with their calendars that adorn their office walls.
And say “lucky, lucky buggers, us born with a cock and balls”.

Cooking cleaning everyday, not an ounce of praise, not a pennies pay.
You’ve married a beer-gut bigot, an overweight, over sexed swine.
He rapes you every night, just to pass away the time.
You suffer every bleeding month, he’s never suffered in his life.
After cooking his umpteenth dinner,
you slit your throat with the kitchen knife.

You leave him a suicide note on the table in the hall,
saying ‘lucky, lucky buggers those born with a cock and balls,
lucky, lucky buggers those born with a cock and balls,
lucky, lucky buggers those born with a cock and balls ’.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002