I learned he was simultaneously strong and weak
Just like a surviving spouse at a funeral
Bleak as the bereaved, strong because he had to be
He used to visit the bookshop
I’d see him there quite a lot
He would read the things he never bought
And buy the things he never should
And I stood as I would care to do:
Pretending not to stare at his pages
I must keep quiet in case of argument or riot
There’s already enough strife to fight
And because light was at a premium
When darkness became ever cheaper,
He knew that he’d been had.
He was the surviving spouse at the Funeral for the universe
And there was no god to see that it was bad.
You aren’t the first lady he’s treated like shit
This counterfeit husband whose gloves do not fit
There’s truth in the land of the really abused
You need not be battered, you need not be bruised
There’s proof through the night in the home of the scared
It’s true – not alternate, contrived, nor prepared
It’s there in your stance and your eyes as they speak
But also in this; in his slimy technique
We see what it’s like to be there, to be you
We feel and we hurt, as we watch and see you
Just know you can stop this, the pain and the hurt;
You might be his last but you know you weren’t first.
O beautiful for marching ones,
For fighters good and strong,
Those champions so loud of tongue
In protesting such wrongs
Folk shed their grace on thee
And crowned thy good with sisterhood
For all of us to see!
O beautiful for suffragettes;
With dignity their cause addressed
For they shall not be moved!
The people mend thine flaws
Confirmed their hearts upon their march,
Such power unforesaw!
O beautiful for heroes new
In liberating hope
Who shared their love in global view;
Your people, love defined
In grace they showed both friend and foe:
O beautiful for female dreams
Of choice and of consent
For millions of marching teams
Refuse to be oppressed
You can’t have hope denied
When crowning good with sisterhood
And menfolk at their side!
My words, they need to be with yours at once
Combining rhymes and wordplay would be fun
Our poetry should make a date for lunch
If words be wine, we’d write a toast to puns
We’d raise a book and drink the beats right in
I’d watch your sexy assonance pass by
Ingesting and inspecting everything
From filthy talk to sweet soliloquy
Imagine how incredible, this bit:
If you and I -together- wrote each page
Celestial prescriptions would be writ
One script, twin players waiting for a stage.
Our wordy weapuns armed, now forth we go;
Unto the battlefield of rhyme and prose.
Excuse me. 2017?
How do you do? Can we speak please?
I know you’re new, so we MUST talk
Since New Year’s is around the block
I have requests I hope you’ll grant
Though, to be fair, my hopes are scant
I only want the usual things
Good will towards men and Earthly peace
Perhaps you’ll save some poor folks’ jobs
And focus less on rich ones’ gobs
And if inclined to alter fate
Could you please drop the murder rate?
And while you’re at it, lessen hate
And find some homes for those displaced
I want to love you, ’17
To feel as if you’re family
I could, you know, if you are good
But you must help us, understood?
I’m sorry for these tough demands
I’m sure that you have other plans
Just promise me you’ll be a lesser
Evil than your predecessor