On Tuesday nights in Molly's living room
(the hall is much too cold in winter) gather
the women of the neighbourhood, for whom
there's nothing better than the chance to blather.
They sip their tea and butter scones and talk
of how to kill all men. A wife must know
just how to make her husband scream and squawk
and spread his guts like jam upon the snow.
And when they're done and pottered home again
to cook another meal and dust upstairs
they know a mace is made from ball and chain,
an apron's something which a butcher wears.
Bring me my Bow of burning gold.
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!