Chris doesn't like my hair up. I don't like my hair up. I'm not wearing my fucking hair up. ― You kiss your mother with that mouth?

Her lofty song commands in thrilling strains That new-raised woman snap her rusty chains, Unring her finger and unbind her breast.

The grass-eaters fail to maintain a 'manly' appearance, snared instead by the world of cosmetics and fashion which makes them look soft, 'fragile and girlie' ([…]).

They danced on silently, softly. Their feet played tricks to the beat of the tireless measure, that exquisitely asinine blare which is England's punishment for having lost America.