I am my mother’s son,
Born of her blood, her breath, her fight,
A cord cut but never severed,
Who dares strike the root of me?
I’d burn the hand that bruises her,
Yet cowards in red caps cheer the blow.
Grinning, hollow men led by a swine.
I am my sister’s brother,
Shield to her storm, her echo, her kin,
Her voice a storm they fear to hear,
What man stands proud to choke her out?
Not one with a spine, not one I’d name,
They root and crawl, their bellies in mud
Marching blind, in red and orange shame.
I am my wife’s husband,
Vowed to her soul, her strength, her choice,
A bond they’d cage in rusted law.
Who spits on love and calls it right?
I’d shred their banners, topple their lies,
But they strut, grinning, pigs in ties.
Let their orange master squeal as it dies.
I am my daughter’s father,
Guardian of her dreams, her dawn, her infinite skies,
A world they would shrink to fit their palm.
What beast would claw his own child’s wings?
None but the vermin parading as men,
None worthy of the air she breathes,
Yet here they squeal, orange and obscene.
I am a man, not a blade to wield,
Not a fist to raise against my own,
My mother, sister, wife, daughter,
All women, all roots, all mirrors of me.
To wound them is to bleed myself,
So why do these men not cringe to see?
They march with pride toward their own ruin.
Shame should choke them, silence their roar,
Every man’s a mother’s son,
And no man’s soul survives the sin
Of striking hands that shaped his core.
MAGA swine can squeal and preen,
They’ll reap the rot they’ve sown in green.
Their ruin the debt to the women they’ve torn.
