No great lyrical work, this. More a simple love-letter, to one of my dearest . chick friends.
I think it says something about female friendship in general.
It’s just not likely to win any prizes while it’s saying it!
MISTRESS NAUGHTY PANTS
She is me and I am her…
In an odd, alternative universe…if you squinted.
I am bossy, judgmental and impatient. She is never those things.
She is a needy, people-pleasing, attention whore. Not me!
Yet somehow we muddle along, despite these chasms of difference.
She doesn’t so much encourage, as goad.
I don’t so much give counsel , as pry.
We support each other. Mostly to be bad, bad women.
Neither of us could lay claim to Madonna status.
Unless you mean the singer. In the 80s. With the bra thingy…
Were we at school together we would have been declared
a terrible influence on each other.
Well. Fair cop. We are.
She has had many a chance to call me a loser and send me packing.
Instead, she has chosen to pour me a drink and give me succour.
Who cares if she’s a people-pleaser? She pleases me!
The older I get, the wearier I get, the more of a loser I get,
The more I love that she, this wild, kooky, annoying, delightful woman,
Enables me to always scrape together enough, every day,
to stand on the street corner,
and purchase a gram of joy.