If I growled, “You are asking for a wallop,
for me to thrash your face into a pulp,
now shut your bagel-hole, you vole-brained trollop,”
so my marshmallow of desire should gulp,
the sisterhood would gather for the lynch
since it’s a sin to turn your lover victim,
to reduce your sweetheart to a flinch.
But Man has cause to feel that something’s tricked him,
as many girls think it’s pure Missus Pankhurst
and a blast of liberated strength
to flip the switchboards in their minds and slap first,
a grand belittling snip of phallic length,
as though to have a heart that’s cruel and shady
is the rightful province of the lady.
You’re not a blameless baby,
and if you sink to raising fists to me,
I’ll kick your head in. That’s equality.
