Sing Me A Song of Sexism, With My Pockets Full of Holes

Oh! Sing to me of those Quadroon Balls down in New Orleans!

Sing to me of praline, cinnamon, and cafe-au-lait girls

auctioned off to the highest peaches and cream or ivory bidder

as mistresses blessedly chosen for those

inherent hypersexual qualities of theirs

lying in th' summer shades of their skin

cuz there ain't no other work y'all 'll let 'em git.



Remind me again of girls forced by their fathers-

and mothers as well, lest we forget-

into revealing outfits and makeup since

they wouldn't really be a woman without it;

whistle a tune back to recall

the number of bosses hiring women for underpaid labor

with an eye up and down their body

followed by the simple request-cum-command:

"You look like you could fit in here, love,

but next time try to wear something a little more......

functional, for God's sake, if you know what I mean."

Forcing us into skinny jeans

with economic sanctions,

refusing to even give a second glance

to the modestly dressed-

and what can you say against this,

really,

when you so desperately need the money

to support yourself or your family?



Cuz you're also raised to believe

that you have no voice to speak up

against such things

(coming as they first did

cloaked in mummy and daddy's teachings).

And anyway,

you need to make it,

all on your own,

you need to make it

all alone
else you're less of a human being-

weak

downtrodden

deserving of pity

(not support or a community)

in this individualistic society.

So don't say nuthin' bout color,

gender, or sexual harassment when complainin'

else it's back to the job applications

for all your ungrateful trouble-raisin'.



After all, you're a woman-

you're meant to be a sex object from day one,

so git it straight, you need to be grateful

we even let you have a job.

And as for personal worth and inner value,

don't make me repeat what so many others've told y':

but you're a woman, so maybe you can't remember-

your all lies in the tightness of your pussy's walls

and how well you can use it to amuse us men.



(And we're taught it's our fault when they rape us

because of our inherent hypersexual behaviors

lying in the shades of our skins,

the sweeps of our eyelids,

and those skimpy dresses they pushed on top of us;

all these liberals heartfelt yelling away,

"Don't judge her for what she's wearing!"

yet meantime the big picture's evaded:

that maybe most women don't enjoy dressing thus-

it makes them feel cheap and self-conscious-

but they've been pushed into it

by a variety of different sources

and so they come to accept this

as one more of the sex's obligations.)



So go'on, I love to hear this refrain:

Go'on an' tell me agin

how we all have the same opportunities

as you peaches an' cream or ivory men.