I seek no poetry,
poetry is for the dead,
Men still want a dead wife
And for his dinner his wife's head

My leaves of clothes of wool and nicities
Are my cunning way to lure you into the future
The future starts with I,
F is for fathers who are mothers in disguise

Dear men, Dear Sir
I do not seek to abide your faith,
To be women is not about my *******

Sit down young man, you sound like a cat cry for a wolf's tale
You joke around about my future
When you are a joke as well

You push a girl child into another man's eyes
And then cry about a feminists' tale
You rupture her nurture, make her La Lorona,
See her haunt you in your dreams

DEAR SIR, NO NEWSPAPERS,
NO BUTLERS FOR YOUR SEAMS,
No man's cry is a woman's dream!

Peace be with you and your picket fence of excrements!