green eggs and man
I AM MAN.
I AM MAN.
MAN-I-AM.
That Man-I-Am.
That Man-I-Am.
I do not like this Man-I-Am.
But don’t you have to give a damn
about this righteous Man-I-Am?
I do not give a shit or damn
about this fucking Man-I-Am.
Would you like to hear his views
about a woman’s right to choose?
I would not like to hear his views
unless they are, “Your bod. You choose!”
Unless he wants a panel mustered
every time he blows his custard,
he can stuff his fucking views
on my right to live and screw.
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no!
He just noticed a small typo!
Which you’d have seen, but see, you’re dumb
so he will teach you
(you’re welcome.)
Oh Man-I-Am, Oh Man-I-Am,
THANK YOU,
THANK YOU,
Man-I-Am!
A good man has addressed your gaffe.
You surely didn’t mean to laugh!
Now kindly read his paragraphs.
I didn’t gaffe.
I fully laughed.
I will not read his paragraphs.
I do not care to hear his views.
I do not. And I get to choose.
I do not like this Man-I-Am.
I do not need his flim or flam.
Don’t you love him in your feed?
Perhaps you’re thirsty for his seed?
I do not want him in my feed.
I do not yearn to bake or breed.
I am not shrill. I will not chill.
I need no pickle in my dill.
I will not read his paragraphs.
I will not soothe his chappy ass.
I do not like this Man-I-Am.
I do not give a shit or damn.
Won’t you care, oh won’t you care
when he gets mad because you swear?
I do not care. I fucking swear:
”Fucking titmunch asscheese.” There.
I will not let him in my house.
I would not take him for my spouse.
I do not like him in my feed.
I am not thirsty for his seed.
I do not want him to explain
why typos wound his manly brain.
I do not give a half a damn
about this bitchass Man-I-Am.
Would you like to hear HIS side?
Consent need only be implied.
And look at him, how hard he cried!
How smart he is! How nice inside.
And as we know, these bitches lied.
(That one time. In Rolling Stone.)
I would not like to hear his side.
I do not care how hard he cried
because he forced his way inside.
I know how many people hide.
(Me too, me too, me too, we sighed.)
No rape apologist decides
who is and who is not allied.
Fuck outta here, you Man-I-Am.
I do not give a fucking damn.
It’s only fair, you are aware,
that he has thoughts on what you wear.
He may not tell me what to wear.
I may be clothed. I may be bare.
I do not care. I fucking swear.
I do not trust his facial hair.
He may not spew his fucked-up views
about my sister’s right to choose.
He may not call me slut or tart.
He may not question if I’m smart.
He may not call me babe or hon,
I’m not his fucking puppy. Done.
I didn’t gaffe. I will not laugh
so save your fucking paragraphs,
you prickly little Man-I-Am.
I truly do not give a damn.
Would you let him please explain?
He has two daughters! Rose and Jane!
I’m sad to hear he loves these girls
and uses them to preen and twirl:
”Come see this Good Man Paradigm!”
(and yet, these are such scary times…)
Not-raping should be good enough
to earn our love and thanks and muff,
our kind support, facts disregarded,
our pain ignored, our trust discarded,
our voices shushed, our limbs aparted.
I am not grateful he restrained
his loathing down to mere disdain.
I am not his wife or daughter.
He can’t save me from his slaughter.
I don’t need a kindly lecture
from a wannabe protector
who can’t see the present threat
he is, has been, and will be yet.
I will not let him ex or plain.
I will not give him space or rein.
I do not owe him time or care.
I do not owe him thought or air.
I do not owe him fucking shit.
He’s welcome to die mad of it.