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I'm sure the Masons are lovely, ( some of my best friends etc...), but I still feel that a Masonic installation is not the venue for a funny (?) female poet. I'll stick to Lions & Lionesses where I've had some great evenings.

Stuff the Masons

I didn't get a drinking glass,
I didn't get a pen;
I didn't get a bunch of flowers
From that lousy bunch of men.

I didn't get a fridge sticker,
Nor as yet a word of thanks;
And I had to wait two bloody hours
While they did their bloody pranks.

I didn't get a handshake,
I didn't get a spoon;
Maybe a cold is all I got
In that bloody freezing room.

They call their meal a festive board,
You'd eat better at St Vinnies;
And the wives that wait downstairs for them,
What a proper bunch of ninnies.

I entertained a few of them,
I thought "Well, up you, boys".
And our laughter floated through upstairs,
You could hear our raucous noise.

I was told there'd be a crowd of wives,
I counted eight and a half;
Well, actually there were nine of them,
But one was slightly daft.

Rocked back and forth in her chair all night,
And never said a word;
I would have rocked along with her
But I might have looked absurd.

I thought the Nats. were bad enough,
But the Masons are far worse;
I hope the Worshipful Grand Master
Gets the bloody curse.

They didn't even try to pay
The petrol that I'd spent;
I hope their temple tumbles down
I'm bloody mad I ever went.
The dinner came well after nine,
And it tasted bloody crook;
I could see that all those lousy pricks
Would never buy a book.

I'm glad I spilled their lousy soup
Upon their lousy tablecloth;
At least I think I've made my mark
With mulligatawny broth.

They stood and sang "God Save the Queen"
With their hands upon their heart;
If I could've then I would've
Done a noisy fart.

Peg Pringle came along with me,
It was good of her to come;
I'm so sorry I exposed her
To those masonic bums.

I could have changed my programme,
But I started with "Damn Knickers";
The Worshipful Grand Master glared'
The boys gave a timid snicker.

They banged the table when I'd done,
They're frightened of the clap;
A bunch of bloody penguins,
Stuffed masons all on tap.

You've seen Antarctic penguins,
Wagging tails and flapping feathers;
Well this mob looked just like them
In equally icy weather.

I waited two more bloody hours
While they made Masonic toasts;
And the Worshipful Grand Master
He thought he was the most.

'Twas really not the venue
For women at their dinner;
But the bloke who rushed to book me
Thought he had a winner.

If the Four X started to run out,
Or the wives were all alone;
Then Lisa could be asked to stand
And do a little poem.
They just wanted me to talk for free,
To make them smile and laugh;
I'm sorry I even got dressed up
Sorry I had a bath.

They never even asked me
To pick the raffle winner;
I s'pose they thought I should be glad
I got their lousy dinner.

And as I left a lady said,
"Write a poem about tonight;
I'm sure you had a lovely time".
I thought "That'd be bloody right".
(What a stupid bloody skite)

There's a word I never ever use,
It's never passed my lips;
But they're a mob of arseholes
Too tight to even shit.

The hall was bloody freezing cold,
I think the floor was concrete;
If I get the flaming flu from this
My joy will be complete.

So - I didn't get a drinking glass,
Didn't even get the straw;
What a wasted bloody evening
With a mob of bloody bores.

Even the poor old Senior Citz
Give me a bunch of flowers;
And the Masons have some flashy cars
And I was there for hours.

So I hope they piddle in their aprons,
Their chains tarnish on their chests;
All those moronic masons'
A mob of chauvinistic pests.

And I also hope they all get screwed,
The Grand Master gets the clap;
And I'll never talk for masons
You can be bloody sure of that.

Copyright; Lisa Gerhard Plucknett

 

 



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