[Athens. 392AD. Dawn.

Lights rise and fall on three separate tableaus upstage.

1. Praxagora and her husband Blepyros in silent verbal fight shouting at each other.
2. Praxagora and Blepyros at a standoff. Arms crossed and back-to-back.
3. Praxagora with a lamp putting on a man's cloak.

Praxagora enters and crosses downstage. She wears a cloak and carries a fake beard and a lamp. She tiptoes stealthily. She thinks she hears something. It's nothing. She sits and seems to be waiting for someone.]

PRAXAGORA: Oh gods! Oh gods I beseech you to… I… I… You see… [PAN has entered behind her.] Can you…? Can you give me a hand?

[PAN tosses a hand onto the stage. Praxagora sees it and picks it up.]

PRAXAGORA: Ew. [She throws it offstage.] Forget it.

[Enter PAN. He's smelly and drunk. He stumbles in playing a pan-flute.]

PAN: Did someone like, beckon? [He falls on his face.] Hey, how ya doin'. I'm Pan. Pleasure to meet you baby I'm sure. The other gods were a little busy… so they sent me okay? Can I play you a little ditty on my reed flute?

[He begins to play.]

PRAXAGORA: You're the god that's supposed to help me? You're drunk.

PAN: Hey baby, don't be that way man. It's all good you know what I'm sayin'?

PRAXAGORA: You smell.

PAN: I'm half goat man, give me a break. Look, you got some problems-- I'm here to help you huh? You know what you need? You need a little Pan-Love you know what I'm sayin'? It's all good. Here let me knock your socks off with some Pan-flute action. [He begins to play and dance, but really can't since he's tanked. He stops and wipes his mouth.] Sorry, got a little drool goin' there. What do you say we skip the music, and just get it on huh?

PRAXAGORA: Get away from me. I need a real god not a… myth, okay. Get out of here—go on git!

PAN: Baby, come on don't be that way—it's all good ya know what I'm sayin'…


PAN: Look, that's cool baby, you do the little mortal thing that you do right… but you'll want me back. I'll be on the down-low. You'll be missin' the Pan and his wicked flute-love, you know what I'm sayin'? [He backs up. Throws a kiss. Turns and walks into a column. He finally exits. Praxagora throws up her hands. She turns to her lamp.]

O Bedside Lamp
O splendentary beam
O blaze of blazing glazed gaze
O horrible orb of gorgeous…
O Lamp
You're the only nonwoman who knows a woman's code
You've earned my trust
When we wives within our rooms, strain and struggle to rehearse new shapes of love in closest intercourse, you guard my flanks. And when we splay our bodies in supine display you oversee the action… from the rear.
Your shaft and your shaft alone is privy to my inmost nooks
Unwanted hair
Private mementos
What we keep buried in the bedside end table…
O Wicked lamp!
You are my only real friend, a god who knows my thoughts and agrees always with my actions…
Therefore, friend, you now shall be apprised of all decisions taken and actions passed by me and my assembled associates.
Where ever they are.
It's getting toward dawn Lamp. They should have come. What could be the trouble?—They couldn't follow directions and make a beard? It was too much of a task for them to snatch their husband's cloak and not get caught?

[BLANCH has entered upstage carrying a cloak and beard.]

PRAXAGORA: [Fumbling putting on beard.] Who's there? Uh… I mean… [in deep voice] who's there young lady?

BLANCH: Oh. I'm sorry sir I thought you were my friend Praxagora… Never mind I was just leaving…

PRAXAGORA: Oh yes, well… Good day then. Gods bless Athens.

BLANCH: [attempting to exit] Gods bless Athens…

PRAXAGORA: Blanch! [pulling down beard] It's me… what do you think?

BLANCH: Praxagora? It is you! I really thought you were a man!

PRAXAGORA: Good! But did I look like my husband Blepyros?

BLANCH: Maybe. From a distance. At night. In a really dark room…

PRAXAGORA: That's enough… It's better than nothing—

BLANCH: When Blepyros finds out what you've done he's going to shit bricks!

PRAXAGORA: I wish he would, then I wouldn't have to hear about his constipation.

BLANCH: You better be careful Praxagora--No offense, but your husband Blepyros is an old hothead!

PRAXAGORA: Oh, I know how to handle him. And who's to say he's going to find out it was me anyway? Where's your disguise? Come on, hurry up!

BLANCH: Right here. I had to wait till Pheidolos fell asleep before I could snatch his cloak.

PRAXAGORA: That shouldn't have taken long.

[She helps her on with her beard and cloak.]

BLANCH: But he didn't get in till after midnight—I'm sure he's got a mistress.

PRAXAGORA: Name a Congressman that doesn't. Every Congressman has a Sweet Young Thing on the side.

BLANCH: Well of course, but I think he's got a new Sweet Young Thing.

PRAXAGORA: Yea, he probably outlived her and got a new one. You're husband is so ancient; his Sweet Young Thing is by now a Sour Old Thing.

BLANCH: What about StromThurmondes from Carolinopolis? He's 99 years old; it would take many a sweet young thing to erect that old edifice.

PRAXAGORA: Well from now on he's out of luck. After us Congressmen's wives take over Congress there's going to be some changes. [PRAXAGORA is finished putting on BLANCH'S disguise.] There you go.

[She stands back to view her.]

BLANCH: How do I look?

PRAXAGORA: Say something your Congressman husband would say. [BLANCH does a Bronx cheer.] I said something he'd say, not the sounds he makes.

BLANCH: [Taking off beard.] Is this really going to work Praxagora?

[The CHORUS of WIVES begins to enter. They greet and chat with each other. They all carry their beards and wear cloaks.]

PRAXAGORA: Gods bless Athens, here come the wives! Better late than never. Here's Kleinarete from Minnesoteon, and you must be Sostrate from Alabamanos, and Melistiche from Ohioinochinos…

PHILAINTE: [Dressed without a cloak, but in a garish gown] Hello darling, how are you?

PRAXAGORA: Well if it isn't, Philainte from New Yorpigos. The very best Congressman's wives, Athens complete elite.

PHILAINTE: I apologize for being late…

GEUSISTRATE: I had the godawfulest trouble getting away honey; my husband was at it all night.

CHORUS: At it all night?

GEUSISTRATE: Yes, at the toilet. He stuffed himself with bad sardines. It was three o'clock before he belched himself to sleep.

BLANCH: What state is your husband from?


BLANCH: Oh yes, the man who lets those tremendous farts!

GEUSISTRATE: It's such a waste of talent honey: He speaks softly, carries a big stick and farts like an army… if he'd only stay awake he'd make a fortune in politics… oh that's right, he is in politics!

[They all laugh at this.]

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): I would've made it earlier too darling, but my husband you see has a very tigh holerance, I mean a high tolerance, so it took me a while to tink him under the dable, I mean drink him under the table, so though I may be a bit tipsy I won't be falling for any of your ladies kinky stunts…

PRAXAGORA: Kinky stunts?

OLD DRUNK CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): I meant stinky cu…

PRAXAGORA: [interrupting] Very well ladies! Have a seat, have a seat now and we'll begin. Now that I've finally got you all together I'd first like to run a check on your performance. Have you all complied with the list of directives we drafted and passed out at the Athens feast last summer?

CHORUS: Oh Yes/Of Course!/Uh-huh…

PRAXAGORA: Wonderful. Let's start with the first one. Blanch check off the list.

BLANCH: Number 1. Create or obtain a beard.

[The CHORUS holds up their beards.]

PRAXAGORA: Very good ladies.

GEUSISTRATE: Mine's divine. Calvinapigos Klein.

PHILAINTE: [pulling out a long beard] Mine's in line with the fashion. This summer beard lines below the knees are in.

BLANCH: Check. Number 2. Steal husband's cloak. Does everyone have a cloak?

PRAXAGORA: I think you can see everyone has a man's cloak Blanch, please let's move on…

BLANCH: But that one's not wearing hers.

PRAXAGORA: Yes Philainte, why aren't you wearing what your husband wears?

PHILAINTE: I am. I am wearing what my husband wears darling.

[BLANCH and PRAXADORA exchange a look.]


PHILANTE: Perhaps I should explain. My husband represents the theatre district.


PRAXADORA: That explains everything! Let's move on.

BLANCH: Check. Number 3. Steal husband's slippers and cane.

[CHORUS holds up slippers and canes.]

CHORUS: Got it/No problem/Like takin' candy from a baby/He ain't goin' anywhere today!

PRAXADORA: Excellent ladies!

BLANCH: Check. Number 4. Tan your skin until it looks old and leathery like a man's.


PRAXAGORA: Well? Did nobody comply?

PHILAINTE: [raising hand] I did!

PRAXAGORA: One. That's it?

PHILAINTE: I smeared my body with oil and spent the whole summer standing in the sun to get an all over deep dark tan.

PRAXAGORA: Wonderful! Show us!

[She disrobes. She's gorgeous.]

PHILAINTE: So… Do I look like a man?

PRAXAGORA: Uh… You're almost there honey…

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): If she looks like a man, then I look like a woman… wait, that didn't come out right.

PRAXAGORA: Just uh… be sure to keep the cloak on okay honey?

PHILAINTE: Darn it. And I laid out tanning all summer too. [Pointing to a man in the audience.] This guy knows. He watched me every day from the bushes. You'll stand up for me won't you?

PRAXAGORA: He doesn't need to do that. I'm sure he's standing at attention right now. Let's move on Blanch.

BLANCH: Number four. Let all the hair on your body grow until your armpits bush up into jungles.


PRAXAGORA: Come on! This one was easy!

KLEINARETE: I did it! I threw my razor right out of the house, now I'm such a mass of fuzz I don't even look like a woman any more.

PRAXAGORA: All right. Let's see!

[She takes off her cloak, she looks a little like Sasquatch, everyone screams.]

BLANCH: Well, she doesn't look like a woman anymore.

PRAXAGORA: Yes, but she doesn't look like a man either. Ladies! These were simple requests!

KLEINARETE: I don't see you all tan and hairy Praxagora!

CHORUS: Yea!/What's up with that?!/honky Athens wench!/she's as white as my ass!/I don't even see peach fuzz!

PRAXAGORA: There's a simple explanation for that. I have no hair follicles on my body. And I don't tan, I burn.

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): Yea? And I'm am honest politician!

PRAXAGORA: What's that? I never heard of one.

GEUSISTRATE: Look honey, I can barely get my husband to touch me as it is—

PHILAINTE: You're husband touches you?

GEUSISTRATE: Well, probably more than your husband touches you that's for sure—but see I have to compete with the Sweet Young Things--if I start lookin' like some hairy-assed wrinkly mountain sheep I ain't gonna get ANY man to touch me EVER!

BLANCH: Except maybe that Congressman from Montanaion.

CHORUS: Yea! She's right. It takes long enough for my husband to find it, he doesn't need to see a forest through the trees/I think we got enough Bush in office, don't you think?/The only hides who should be tanned are the backsides of those damned Sweet Young Things!/ Yea!

BLANCH: We'll get our chance ladies! Soon we'll be ass grabbing as much as our husbands!

CHORUS: Yea!/Bring on the interns!/Beefy male interns!/I'm gonna get laid on my desk all the time!/Bring on the cigars!

PRAXAGORA: [Quieting them down.] We've got to pass muster first Ladies! If we, the Congressmen's wives are to become the majority and take over Congress we must make these careful preparations… From now on no one must see the slightest bit of your body. Tie up your cloaks… The littlest slip and we are undone.

BLANCH: We'll have to get over there early to get those seats down front by the speaker's stand. The other Congressmen can't see as well in back…

PRAXAGORA: I can see it all now: The people assemble, Congress commences… then we arrive in a flap, some woman climbs over a bench flips up her cloak, and exposes to all her misplaced whiskers.

KLEINARETE: It'll probably be me— I've got bush on top of my bush!

PRAXAGORA: But if we get there first and take our places no one will be the wiser. With proper beards tied on and arranged in place, what casual observer will say that we're not our husbands?

[A WOMAN stands holding a dildo attached to some yarn.]

SOSTRATE : You're right! You know like that one Congress guy- I can't remember his name, but like I read in the Athens Enquierion ya know, that he was once a woman ya know, and then the gods, I think it was Apollo like changed him to man and he pulled the wool over everyone's eyes!

PRAXAGORA: Excuse me, [pointing to dildo] What's that?

SOSTRATE: This? Oh. Congress is so boring I thought I would have some time to a… flog some fleece.

[CHORUS agrees. They all pull out their special dildo.]

PRAXAGORA: Ladies? Can I ask you a question? Why are we doing this?

[Silence. A hand goes up in back.]

KLEINARTE: To get laid? [Cheers.]

PRAXAGORA: No! To take command! Take charge! Take over! We'll run the ship of state! Run it right and proper and well! No more sitting and drifting with empty oarlocks and barren masts!

CHORUS WOMEN: That's exactly what we're talking about!/I got an empty oarlock/ [Holding dildo] And I got a barren mast!

[CHORUS cheers!]

PRAXAGORA: I understand where you're coming from, but that's not the only reason to…

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): We can't go to Congress until we've at least had a drink.

PRAXAGORA: What? A drink?

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): Isn't this party politics?


DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): Well where's the party!


PRAXAGORA: Ladies! Women! I have to admit I was once young and naive, but now my eyes are opened. We were adorned with gifts. Showered with money. Flattered into love as our father-figure sugar daddy husbands wined us, dined us…

BLANCH: And sixty-nined us.

PRAXAGORA: But now that we're middle aged…

BLANCH: Speak for yourself…

PRAXAGORA: Or in denial that your middle aged… It doesn't matter, we're ignored, we're yesterday's news, the trophy wife suddenly looks a bit tarnished and the eye begins to wander doesn't it?

KLEINARETE: It's those damn Sweet Young Things!

PRAXAGORA: They're just new meat, new berries on the vine to pluck, suck and spit out. Well I say who needs the men! We can take over and do better!

PHILAINTE: Now look, I don't mean to set back your women's lib party here, but uh… WE'RE WOMEN! All I could do on the Congress floor is wax it.

CHORUS: Yea/I found a man to support me so I don't have to worry about such things/I can do several acts of Congress, but none of the political nature/I intercourse with males—not females you know?/Yea, half these bitches are driving me crazy already!

PHILAINTE: We can open the can, we just don't know if we'll be able to deal with the worms! What are we going to do Praxagora?

PRAXAGORA: I am so glad you asked that question. I'm way ahead of you. I knew we would need some help, so I asked some women who know Congress best to help us out. And they agreed. Come on out girls! It's okay!

[Enter a 2nd Chorus of women in cloaks. The 2nd Chorus drops their cloaks to reveal SWEET YOUNG THINGS. A chorus of gasps!]

BLANCH: Oh my God!

CHORUS: Let's get ‘em!

[It's a free for all. The CHORUS of WIVES attacks the SWEET YOUNG THINGS. PRAXAGORA finally stops them.]

PRAXAGORA: Stop. Stop! STOP IT! Now listen up! I've made a deal! They'll stop messin' around with our men if we give them jobs running Congress.

CHORUS: What did you say?/They will?/I don't believe it…

PRAXAGORA: They'll stop their foolin' around on us. They promised. IF we let them work in the Congress--It's what they want anyway!


SWEET YOUNG THING (Monica): Yea! You think we like bedding down your smelly limp-dicked husbands?

GEUSISTRATE: Hey. My husband is NOT smelly!

MEEK SWEET YOUNG THING (Daphne): We do it ‘cause we have to. It's the only way to get some power.

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): I'll give you some power honey…

[She breathes in DAPHNE'S face. She passes out.]

PRAXAGORA: Look, they hang out and see how Congress is run every day, they probably know it better than our husbands!

CHORUS: [grumbling] I don't like it/Why should we trust these bitches?/These Bimbos couldn't find their ass with both hands.

BLANCH: When you vote you have to raise your hands, the only practice they've had is spreading their legs!

CHORUS: I know how to act in Congress, you get drunk, you swear, and every so often you pass a decree

SWEET YOUNG THING (Helen): There's more to it than just that! Do you know how to perform the opening ceremony? Or make a speech? You're done for if you can't do that. You could try without us, but if you fail we'll be back in the saddle ridin' your honey's ponies.

[The CHORUS grumbles.]

PRAXAGORA: She's right. Look- today I, as my husband Blepyros, will make the proclamation giving the power to us and then the Sweet Young Things will run the show, of course answering only to me—right girls?

SWT (Helen): [AS PRAXAGORA pulls her hair] Sure thing commander in cheiftess!

BLANCH: Show us the ceremony and maybe the ladies will believe you.

PRAXAGORA: All right. You have the floor girls.

BUSTY SWT (Monica): Okay. Well. I have two things here you should probably be familiar with…

BLANCH: I think everybody's pretty familiar those things honey, let's move on to something else…

[CHORUS laughs and chants Blanch! Blanch! Blanch! a la Jerry Springer.]

PRAXAGORA: Please! Go ahead…

SWT (Daphne): You should know the opening ceremony and also how to speak in front of Congress. Now before the opening ceremonies there's a sacrifice to the gods see, and that's when this herald comes in and says…

SWT (Monica): Attention please! The ritual purification will now commence. The Chaplain will pass among you the sacrificial pussycat!

[Enter a solemn SWT (Helen) holding forth a kitten.]

CHORUS: What?/A cat?/Huh?

BLANCH: Now wait a goll darned minute, I'm not too with-it on this political stuff but I know for sure they don't sacrifice no pussycat.

SWT (Daphne): You're right. They sacrifice a pig.


SWT (Daphne): Yea! A pig.

PRAXAGORA: So where's the pig?

SWT (Helen): We couldn't get a pig. So we got a cat. Would you like to pet my pussy?

PRAXAGORA: No. But I'll pet the cat.

DUMB CHORUS WIFE (KLEIARETE): But wait a sec, of all the animals you could get… why a pussy? [All look at her.] Oh.

PRAXAGORA: Let her commence with the ceremony please, it's almost dawn!

[The chorus gathers around her. She performs several adoration ritual movements.]

SWT (Helen): I lift our pussy up to the gods! Oh Zeus, bless our pussy, fill our pussy with your passionate love, may your strong shaft of light penetrate our pussy…

PRAXAGORA: All right! I think we got it. Let's put our pussy away now shall we? [A bit flush] Let's take it slow with this Congressional business…

BLANCH: After all, it is only our first time.

[Also a bit flush the chorus agrees, fanning themselves.]

DRUNK OLD CHORUS WIFE (Eunice): [smoking cigarette] What are you talking about? I'm ready for another round!

PRAXAGORA: Let's move on to the speeches.

SWT (Monica): First, when you all stand up to speak you have to wear this wreath. On the side of your head, not on top, that's the fashion. Second, when you speak you clench your fist with your thumb on top like that [everybody does this] then when you talk you move it up and down. Like that.

CHORUS: But what do we say?

SWT (Daphne): That's easy. You can say anything you want, as long as you're "concerned" about it.

PRAXAGORA: Just say were concerned?

SWT (Monica): That's right. Like "I'm concerned about the recent firelight shortage. People can't vote for me in the dark." See? Concerned.

SWT (Helen): "I'm concerned about poverty. Poor people are usually dirty and they scuff up my toga."

PRAXAGORA: But how do we say we're going to do something…

SWT (Daphne): What?

PRAXAGORA: You know, take action, do something…

SWT (Daphne): I don't know, no one's ever done that, just say you're concerned and everything's fine…

CHORUS (Philainte): Let me try. I'm concerned about widespread Corruption at the Bar. My drinks are constantly being watered down. (Geusistrate): I'm concerned about the high cost of food. When I go out to dinner I have to leave a bigger tip. (Sostrate): I'm concerned about the rich upper class…

SWT (Daphne): Oh no! Don't ever be concerned about them.


SWT (Daphne): Otherwise you'll be concerned with finding another job.

BLANCH: Heavens to Betsey.

PRAXAGORA: Don't say heavens to Betsey ding-dong you'll blow our cover, remember we're men. Now sit down everyone. Give me that wreath. This is a hard decision I'm making, but I've decided I'll be doing the speaking myself.

CHORUS: What?/ What's going on?

PRAXAGORA: Let me try. [She puts on wreath.] I pray the gods will direct today's deliberations to some successful issue.

My friends: I bear a share no less than yours in this land of ours, and feel compelled to confess to a mounting distress. In fact, my grief is great at the state of our City: Something is rotten in Athens. Our elected officials are routinely vicious; if one happens to step out of line and deliver an honest days performance, he balances it with a week of corruption. Give the job to another, he plumbs yet deeper depths of depravity. We have tried a varied assortment of Congressional leaders. The poor congressman speaks out of the side of his head for a dollar. The rich congressman is a puppet for the one percent. One may woo enemies, while the next rejects allies. We make laws to ban the influence of money and then turn around and take money to ban the influence of too many laws. It's a piggledy-higgledy way to do business and it shakes my faith in government. We draw a public wage for wearing discriminately placed blinders, while the General Welfare wobbles along like a drunken cripple!

CHORUS: Goodness gracious what a lovely speech!/Like, Oh my Zeus!/That's just fabulous!/You go girl!

PRAXAGORA: What's that gentlemen?

CHORUS: I mean—fuck yea!/Kick some butt Hercules/You da Parthenon!

PRAXAGORA: However all is not lost. Give me your support and you may be saved. I here propose that we relinquish the State to the trained managers, the trusted trustees and the forthright directors of our happy homes. To our wives! In short, to our Women!

CHORUS: Hurray! Hurrah! Whoop-Whoop! Hear! Hear!

PRAXAGORA: Foreign diplomacy? Our wives will be the first to protect our soldier sons. Domestic Economy? Who quicker than the hand that rocks the cradle at filling the mouth? Finances? Nothing wilier than women at scrounging a budget. And rest assured that, once in power, they won't allow embezzlement of public funds, the highly trained bookkeepers that they are—they have become Athens finest embezzlers. The superior nature of the female's behavior pattern to that of the common male can be easily shown-- in a song…

[She sings:]

My wife kneels to bake her bread
Totes her laundry on her head
Just like mother

She trusts a tested recipe
Keeps Demeter's yearly spree
Just like mother

They spend hours putting up their hair
Yet, find the time to wash our underwear

BLANCH: That's true!

GEUSISTRATE: Well, I declare!

PRAXAGORA: They'll eat ten muffins off the rack
Then calmly ask if they look fat
They know that we can't answer that
But isn't that just like a democrat?!

CHORUS: Just. . . like . . . mother . . .mother . . .mother!

SYT: "M" is for the many things she gave . . .

SOSTRATE: Shut up!

PRAXAGORA: In the body politic
Patience rules! She don't get sick

CHORUS: Just like Mother

PRAXAGORA: Compromise? She's one to please
On her head or on her knees

CHORUS: Just like Mother

PRAXAGORA: She always favors a democracy
But works well within bureaucracy

If Huns invade she'll turn the tide
Poseidon will run and hide
If she were male she'd be a Kennedy

SYT: Isn't that another century?

PRAXAGORA: That's my Mother

CHORUS: mother . . .mother . . .mother!

Chorus: Just like Mother

PRAXAGORA: Nag the children till they're dead

CHORUS: Just like Mother

PRAXAGORA: Lecture till her face is red

CHORUS: Just like Mother

PRAXAGORA: Hide their lovers ‘neath the bed
Takes her pleasure on her back

CHORUS: Happy nymphomaniacs!

PRAXAGORA: She's the one who knows the score
That makin' love beats makin' war
Let the old guard belch and fart and yawn

CHORUS: They do!

PRAXAGORA: Mom will gladly take all Athens on

CHORUS: Yahoo!!

PRAXAGORA: And toss those codgers from the Parthenon

CHORUS: Hop to it!! ‘Cause they're all
MUTHAS . . .Muthas . . . MUTHAS . . .

PRAXAGORA: Shave and a haircut . . .two drachma! [Song ends.]

Therefore gentlemen why waste time in debate? Why deliberate possible courses of action? I say no more. Give me your support and vote yourselves a life of bliss!

BLANCH: Lovely Praxagora darling. Right on the button.

GEUSISTRATE: If you can manage to bring your project off, we'll elect you commander-in-chief on the spot!

SOSTRATE: But what if a Congressman starts to call you names?

PRAXAGORA: I'll say just that he's deranged.

PHILAINTE : But suppose Condit-ities squints his eyes and begins to get nasty?

PRAXAGORA: I'll just say, "Aren't you supposed to be out lookin' for someone?"

KLEINARTE: Suppose the police start dragging you out in the middle?

PRAXAGORA: My middle is always safe; they'll have to try for my end. [Kisses her hand and slaps her butt.]

CHORUS: We won't sit idle. If they make any attempt to pick you up, we'll shout them down!/I think we've got together a marvelous plan!/ Hurray! Hurrah! Whoop-Whoop! Hip hip!

PRAXAGORA: Now tuck up those dresses honeys
And on with those slippers
Put on those over cloaks
And groom those beards with your clippers
Lean when you walk
On those canes that you stole
And sing an antique melody
Like tottering men of old

CHORUS: Time to commence
Our journey gents
And gents is the magic word
The slightest blunder
Will send us under
Don't get your gender blurred

SWEET YOUNG THING: Thought you were old
But truth be told
You're just beautiful like me
Your brain has wonder
Your power has thunder
And there's lighting between your knees
With their raves and rants
Men have had their chance
History comes next
So no more toil
Or dresses soiled
On our knees under his desk

CHORUS and SWT: Fire companies state
The cost is too great
And they will enforce
State wide blackouts of course
It's a bitter pill
We'll be damned if we'll
Go to work half dead
Unwashed and unfed
Give us a route
Don't give us the boner
The first lamps to go out
Should be the company owners

To Congress gentlemen, on our ways
We're just like dear old dad
Ballots don't mean nothing now a days
You vote for dimple, you'll get chad

PRAXAGORA: To Congress, gentlemen, on our way
To make our country's laws
The pay's three obols per man per day
But we've got troubles because

For statesmanship
The reward was a sip
Of wine, plus a few
Ripe olives, say two
But now there's no trust
Men want a large bust
Or a big tax cut
For their friends, not you

…Where have you gone Joe Socrates?
Athens had better men
Nobody dreamed of demanding fees
For being a citizen

SWT and CHORUS: Time to commence
Our journey gents
Whether the cash be hard or soft
Men will confess
"She's off to Congress,
There's no woman to get me off!"
They will need fresh meat
To cool the heat
Deep in their radiator
But it won't come from us
‘Cause we got the guts
And the love of a good vibrator

[The Chorus finishes with a flourish. Enter a lecherous PAN.]

PAN: Hey babies, how you doin'. Lookin' good! It's the Pan man here sent by the gods. You sure you don't need my help? A little song and dance/and then take down our pants?

PRAXADORA: Get that goat out of here!

[They all exit chasing him out.]


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Copyright © 2002 by Nick Zagone

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that The Congresswomen is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright convention and the Universal Copyright Convention, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional and amateur stage performing, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.

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