It’s time to dim down the lights and snap our fingers.
Alright, I promised from the very getgo there would be absolutly no poetry on this journal. This just proves I become better and better everyday, my power so overwhelming that over time, I even surpase my own mighty law.
Alix Olson is a feminist poet. She thinks she has it so tough, she completly forgot that life isn’t all buttercups and rainbows and clouds for men. So, without further adeu, I present you with the poem that Ms. Olson forgot to write. As my tribute to her and her man-hating work.
Who was the first to name you “Princess?”
Your demand and wittiness
and your glitter does not impress
and your precious hair that I’m well aware
you spend hours to prepare and you say it’s not fair
but you always wear short shorts with words on your derriere
in hopes that some debonair will gawk and stare for you to simply forswear.
He’s not your type you tell your “friend,”
then you make a list of the guys you’ve kissed,
too bad if you reminisce, you realize you missed all the guys you
regret and told “let’s not talk about this,” instead you dismiss and say
it didn’t exist and you make yourself pretend.
But who cares if you happen to lead on every boy to try?
Remember what you said? He’s too nice a guy
But what do you tell your nice guy friends when they sigh
when you whine about how awry your dating life is?
You say you want someone who’s nice,
treat you right and not to fight
but to hold you tight and recite those soulless love songs
By the rich pretty men who you are infatuated with.
They have got to be a dirty jerk
violent and berserk with anger
and strike you when they come home from work.
At least it teaches you to stop making it with that desk clerk
but that’s just a perk and will reassert your overt personality.
Yet men should treat you fair
or else you won’t wear bras or shave your armpit hair.
Get paid no more or no less,
nor can we comment on your dress,
or else a derogatory reply we might be addressed
limiting us to “buddy” or “bro.”
Punishing men and blaming your menstrual flow.
Shallowly praising pretty boys on your TV shows
as if you can get away with murder,
we get the short end of the stick.
You shouldn’t speak, because while you were being chic,
everyone sees you as weak and with further critique;
each week you try a new technique to seek a trophy with a good physique
You wreak of lies but you are not unique.
While those nice guys you step on,
the ones you call on, tread on, lead on, and so on.
You are off and on, once you move in on, and feed upon,
the next day you are gone
to find someone else to go down on.
You don’t know what’s going on
You fight for women’s rights
despite that you tan in ultraviolet light
to look just right every night.
With spite you battle and delight
as long as you can incite your womanly prowess artistry
and your debauchery that turns to a bitchery
Write your poem,
that’ll show ‘em!
Condemn anyone who isn’t a femme,
remember, you are better than them
In your ridiculous mind
I thank you.
Don’t like what I have to say? Send me hatemail! Or simply just leave me unhappy comments!
huh. you know, lynk, that’s a damn good poem. and it’s true. well done, i wasn’t quite sure what to expect.