Molly Mandy

Fat lot of good it done me,
that so-called ‘special school’; labelled
like a tin of Heinz baked beans.

Dad used to call me crazy,
lock me in my room or in the cellar
where Mum kept her booze.

Weren’t allowed no food;
just water, days on end.
If she weren’t too paralytic
she’d get the cane to my backside,
or else he’d burn me with his fag-end.
The sadistic, rotten sod!

Molly was a good girl though, except
them shrinks never believed her,
whereas Mandy weren’t no saint –
got her kicks from crack cocaine.

Just like Molly said,
was Mandy had the knife –
high as a kite that night …
she must have been.

Nothing more than a kid he was,
in the wrong place at the wrong time –
poor little tyke.

She’s the one needs banging up …
if you can find out where she is.
It’s as if sometimes she disappears,
and I ain’t got a clue where she hides.

Like I said, Molly’s good as gold –
wouldn’t harm a frigging fly,
yet it’s always the same.
Taking the rap for Mandy
is the story of my life.