REAL MAN
I'd much rather fight than use my brain
A killer, a warrior, born and bred
With patriotic phrases, like: "Better dead than red".
That pedegree of confrontation follows me my whole life,
Whether I'm picking on weaklings or dominating my wife.
It is a bleak world, the one that I see,
Where you're either a friend or a foe to me.
There is no gray area, no middle ground,
And when I see what I want, there's no fooling around.
Whether it's a touchdown or a woman, I do not delay,
Pushing aside all who stand in my way.
To attain my goal, to triumph, to score,
Proves I'm a man (though it makes her a whore).
And if you try to resist, or stop me, beware,
Cause I'll beat you down without a care.
Fair play and decency are unknown to me;
Anything's allowed to beat an adversary.
Fear is for the weak, so I turn mine to hate,
Brutalizing all who don't share my lucky fate:
To be a real man, ruler of all others,
United forever with my masculine brothers.
It is our job to lead, show our children the way,
And give them a smack if they don't do as we say.
Poor, weak women, born to serve,
Given only the painful power to birth.
Blinded by emotion, they can't understand
The awesome responsibility of being a man.
We were born with the true power to build and create
Weapons of mass-death and organizations of hate.
(C)1996
I see the way you look at me,
And at Uma, Gwenyth, and Jenny McCarthy.
You say Kate Moss looks like she's sick,
But I know you think my hips are thick.
I turn the page, and there she is,
Saying "here're ten hot tips to make you HIS".
But her stomach is flat, like a preteen girl's,
And mine wouldn't look like that even after 500 curls.
I look around life, and all I see
Are women who look a lot like me.
From my surroundings I'd say I am healthy,
But then I turn on "Must See TV".
In movies and TV shows you can find
Both genders and races of every kind.
You can see an Asian woman dating a Jew,
Or a black man sitting as a judge, it's true.
But you may be stuck and have to wait,
If you want to see a woman over size 8,
For, unless the script calls for a "fatso",
They don't get bigger than Lisa Kudrow.
There's a much wider range for men to see,
With George on Seinfeld and Sipowitz on NYPD.
Costner and Douglass can sport a beer gut,
But Alicia Silverstone can't gain a pound on her butt,
Without sending tabloid photogrophers into a whirl,
And spawning headlines like "Alicia is Buttgirl".
And now the age thing is getting so bad,
Actresses are paired with men who could be their dad.
Helen Hunt opposite Jack, Anne Heche with Harrison,
But would Brad Pitt ever romance Diane Keaton?
Sean Connery can still pull the lead in a film,
But an actress half his age is "over the hill".
Meanwhile Jane's in the bathroom giving lunch a heave-ho,
So she can look like Donna on 90210.
Another friend works out every day,
And skips meals so that she can look that way.
But I don't want to be like that,
Letting Culture tell me I'm fat.
I say "This is my body, this is just me."
But I still get upset when I put on a bikini.
I try to tell myself not to dwell,
That I'll meet a man who knows full well
That real women don't naturally possess
A twenty inch waist and a forty inch chest.
But, even then, will I be secure,
With Culture always asking, "Why don't YOU look like HER?"
I am not listening to your message.
I am a woman and don’t need to be told what that means.
My uterus is not a test tube,
And I do not bleed medicine-blue, clear liquid,
In clean little amounts that your utlra-absorbent “Napkins” can soak up…
All while some anorexic, barely post-pubescent model—
With her bone-thin arms and sunken-in cheeks—
Giggles and hush-hushes about “embarrassing leaks”.
Heavy, flesh-filled earth-tones flow from me,
And no matter how often you tell me it’s dirty,
I won’t regret or lament my womanly art,
This sisterhood of life of which I’m a part.
It may ache in my gut or stain my clothes,
But this isn’t just some inconvenience like a bloody nose.
We’re talking about the awesome power of Earth.
And I’m an integral cog in the wheel of Life and Birth.
Some day when Father Time has me in his claws,
And I enter that phase doctors call menopause,
Then the cramps, pimples, and stains won’t seem so bad,
And I may become wistful, or—dare I say—sad,
When some teeny-bopper actress comes on the TV,
And starts preaching about the trials of womanhood to me.
So you can take your white sofas and white, wool sweaters
And curl up with your cup of soup in front of a huge bay window overlooking the sea,
But you should know that your message is lost on me.
I am not listening to you message.
I am a woman…a direct descendant of Mother Earth.
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