The Royal College of Fishwifery

At the Royal College, which upsprang

at the turn of yestercentury’s clang,

we teach the girls fishwifery,

we lead them from the periphery

in a glorious petty niggling gang.

We teach no baking of meringue.

Young ladies learn the harsh harangue

of men who argue differently

at the Royal College.

By year two they can sink a fang

right through a man who doesn’t hang

his shirts up, in a symphony

of wails, a fishwife infantry

that marches forwards, crash boom bang,

at the Royal College.