Saturday Night

Is it to be cocoa with mum ?

Or diet pils and tongue flicking frenum

Will it be bull sperm and Brut ?

Or boiled sweets and the generation game ?

Will mother

Wittering

Into her bag of raspberry ruffles

Stich you into your candy pink housecoats

And strap you into the cumfy chair near dad’s

Or will it be

Out into the fray

Perfumed and pouting

Erotically strapped by Gossard

Moist in the gusset and free

Of your mother’s good intentions

Don’t be late

Your father has been out all day slaying dragons to make the world safe for young girls.

We’ll listen for your taxi

And feigning disruption of a deep and precious sleep

We will pounce with mouths and words which have found new purpose

. . . and call you

A slag

A whore

A trollop

And when like wild cats we have savaged your heart to death with common sense

We will off to bed with overplayed hands and heavy hearts

Knowing

We may have lost you

Forever.