By Tess Foley
We don’t know what you are: door ajar, not from Mars, not Venusian maid,
Turn around, let us see that fine dress that you’ve worn, is that right?
Wearing white and a sash like a girl, drinking pints whilst your hair lies in dissident curls?
Put a pin on, m’love, just make it like glass so I know, head or tail? Is you is?
Is you ain’t? Oh you are? But you aren’t?
Tell you what, say you wink at the boys and I’ll lay down my lance,
Or say you bat lashes for girls and that’s fine,
But make up your mind.
I think that I get it. Epicene on the scene.
Well if it’s fashion you’re after, switch hitters went out with Bacardi, my dahhlink,
You stink of the surface, the gasoline colours that float on the waves
You’ve got 69 problems, bein’ butch ain’t one, can you not cut your hair
And be wearing them boots? It’s not real, it’s a scam that you run,
Snugly sexed but you play on the swings when you feel like a fondle with risk,
Don’t be a tourist, a halfblood, a mule,
And stick to one rule.
We know we can ask you, because you don’t care,
Well, you demonstrate that by declaring you’re both, you’re the wide open sandwich,
Picking a piece must be easy when you’re happy whatever’s put in your mouth,
North then south, it’s a laugh so we’ll ask you just what you like best, chest hair Or small feet?
You dance backwards and perch yourself up
On the gate, oscillate back and forth in the wind,
Don’t you ever admit to fall down on one side?
Take Pride or leave it.
You can’t decide to be both because that’s not a choice,
You’re a coward and fake however you take it and you take it often I’m guessing that’s true?
For you, it’s whichever kneels crossing itself in your path.
Not welcome in here, please don’t lean on our bars, point to boxers or bras,
Stop straddl’ng the border between Cockshoot and Kent and roll from the Indistinct shape in the sheets, not ashamed in the least?
You should be, Our Kid –
You’re unfussy as fuck.
