Sex (or, Yes Thank You, I Have an Adequate Supply of Satisfaction, Sir Mick)

The Women’s Liberation generation fought for rights

At a time when it was not considered ladylike to fight

The victory was crushing for the menfolk of the day

But I’m not sure that Women were the winners in the fray

We gained a lot of power – but we gave a lot away

If this was 1952 I could have read a book

While he fumbled in me nightie for a little bit of nookie

He never would have thought about the missus’ Satisfaction

‘Are you finished yet or not, dear?’ was sufficient Girl Reaction

But the Sexual Revolution changed the way we loved, and whether

For good or ill, we’ve got it and we’re stuck with it for ever

Thanks to Wimmin in the Sixties and their blessed Wimmin’s Power

I’ve to act like I enjoy it and I want it every hour

It isn’t that I don’t – for goodness’ sake, I’m not a nun:

I have urges just like every other girl under the sun

But I’m tired – don’t you get it?  I’m exhausted by the grind

Of work and chores and kids, I’m bored, and then I’ve got to find

The perfect lover deep within me when it’s time to hit the sack!

Well, I tell you now: she’s f**ked orf and she isn’t coming back

If you like it dirty, take a sponge and wash the car

If you want a little spice, nip down to Al’s Falafel Bar

If you want to dress me up in something slinky and revealing

Bugger off!  You must be joking, love – I simply am not feeling

Like I want to lace myself into a posture-threatening bra

Or insert a – tell the truth, I’m not that sure what those things are

Inside my head, inside my body, there’s another me

She delights in six-inch heels and in sexy lingerie

She’s transported by the touch of silk or fur upon her skin

Excited by the frenzy that her lips can put you in

If she isn’t sighing on her back she’s purring on her knees

But sometimes even she prefers a sit down and some tea

Poking round in unexpected places till we’re half insane

They think of us as car engines or model aeroplanes

All they ever want to do is have a fiddle with our parts

They spend forever rummaging to find the bit marked ‘start’

They’d be happy if the mystery of Woman was explained

With an exploded diagram like in those manuals from Haynes

It’s no good trying there, you know, I’m not a garden shed

He’ll be stopping in a minute so’s to stand and scratch his head

Wondering what he came in for, the absent-minded bloody fool

- Funny really, cos they always know exactly where their tools

Are kept, they’re comfortably in reach at any moment, day or night

Which is why you shouldn’t ever let their hands out of your sight

Pockets are for handkerchiefs! the Schoolmarm always said

As she clipped another sweaty little beggar round the head

The minute that her back was turned it’s folly to pretend

That they weren’t vigorously shaking hands with their new bestest friend

We – women – we are blessed with bodies beautiful, top-full

Of secrets, dark and glorious with rhythms magical

In every way as earthly-strong as the unending tidal pull;

Wouldn’t it be simple if instead of what we’ve got

Our equipment was in front – like blokes – just like a letterbox?

Yes!  That would do the trick all right, how easy would it be:

“How pet, d’you fancy takin’ a special delivery?”

Our menfolk shout, then go to grab your knockers (steady on the door

Furniture, we know you’re there, just press the button), or

If they’re particularly dexterous they could ring the little bell

(If it was like that, I might go a little Parcelforce as well)

And the postman always does it twice! – could anything be better?

I won’t hesitate next time the boss says Muriel, take a letter

I admit it: I’d be a Domestic Goddess if I could –

Because we can behave like men, it doesn’t mean we should.