Life’s just Mario Kart with extra sass,
a ****** control of speed and spin,
bananas flying, blue shells smack,
Sharp turns whipping you right off track.
There’s always a choice at the start;
Players, choose your racer:
He picks her every time, 
a pink dress fluttering 
like a newly freed flag
he’s not ready to wave.
They laugh at first,
sticking names on him 
hotter than oil slicks on the track,
controller gripped tighter,
fingers flexing around the proof.
Peach with her crown, all poise and might,
pinks popping in a world of black and white,
she’s everything he wants to be
but can’t yet say.
It’s more than a game, full gas,
she’s mother, gliding across the grass,
So, he keeps picking peaches,
promising that someday,
he’ll wear his own crown,
and it won’t matter what they say
because he’ll be too busy
winning his own **** race.