You read the books that are made for men
And call yourself a feminist

As you recite paragraphs
Making gestures with your right hand

Sprays of self-righteous spit
Accompanied with your confident loud words.

Your knowing worm eyebrows
As the cherry on top.

I wonder if you would be ashamed
To know that Hemingway was an anti-Semite.

Or that Sartre thought there were two kinds of women.
Poor Simone was just like you
She went along for the ride.