We are ladies, who lunch on champagne & oysters,
We collect for church roofs & bells for old cloisters,
Run fetes for good deeds, collect funds for the needy,
Old clothes for those who live where it´s dodgy & seedy.
Dressed up in finery, stockings, gloves & very high heels,
After delivering to the aged, cooked meals on fast wheels,
Cricket teas & creamed scones on hot summer afternoons,
Judging dog shows & choirs on warm days in late Junes.
When our duties are over & ended & all´s done & dusted,
When aprons are off, feet sore & we´re knackered & busted,
We don our posh frocks, hats, bags & red-daub our old lips,
Off we go to our lunch of oysters & cold champagne to sip.
But reality bites, were not really dames, it´s all just a dream,
We are just normal women doing our bit, not society Queens,
We get our hands dirty; do all the work, the village social slog,
Then we go to our homes, to cook dinner & take out the dog.
Oh yes, we are ladies who lunch, that much is really so true,
But it´s around my old farm table with faded cloth of old blue,
With strong hot tea in a mug & on warm toast we do munch,
Raising our mugs, we toast ourselves as true ladies who lunch.