Nonsense

Women are born To be seen, not heard To stay with a flock To keep to the herd Women are born To be born and bear once more This is a privilege: Not to be whored Not to be killed On a flight of feminine panic The kind where a lady Becomes frothing and manic Where they screech In their normally lovely voices, “This is my life, my body, my right To make my own personal choices!” Where they tear at their hair, Usually coifed and neat And where they dress like the devil And roam the street Claiming this and that About freedoms and rights Women should stay home Silenced and contrite.