The marriage rate is going down
And many tears are falling.
The good men left and left behind
Some eyes bloodshot from bawling.
Men no longer mentor
Any women that they pay
Because they fear the power
Of what said women might say
And smart men will no longer talk
To strangers in a skirt
‘Cause they’re one false “j’accuse” away
From sleeping in the dirt.
Cats think that this circumstance
Is surely heavensent:
They live with 30-something women
Whose exes pay the rent.
Meanwhile the men rebuild themselves
From fighters into monks
And leave the chasing women
To the inner-city punks.
The West now walks on eggshells.
There is no doubt about it:
The feminists have made their beds
And now they lie about it.
If you look I think you’ll find
That women are mean to their own kind:
They’ll criticize you if you’re pretty.
They’ll be mean if you look shitty.
They’ll tease you if they can’t see your butt
But if they can then you’re a slut.
They’ll mock you if you’ve got one pal, though
If you are popular they’ll call you shallow.
They’ll fill your life with only hate
But I’m a man. How ’bout a date?
Our childish dreams are warm
Beneath the blanket of unknowing,
Our sensibilities secure
All thanks to lack of growing.
Dulcet and desultory,
With ease we are besot,
Avoiding the obstreperous
And things requiring thought.
We swim in tranquil waters
As our bones turn into lard.
Our brains become decrepit
As we hide from all that’s hard.
The deities of comfort
Sanctify our mindless chatter,
A lullaby to help forget
Our lives don’t really matter.
When hunger or reality
Force us, languid, to act
We choose harmony of feelings
Over cacophony of fact,
And thus have we who worship
Our mirror’s charming sheen
Learned to pray for ignorance
So that we may die serene.
I was a brick wall. So secure
There was nothing I could not endure,
Yet, while I’m safe in a fire
She wanted barbed wire
‘Cause “Barbed Wire is hotter for sure.”
Today I’ve done nothing
But sit on my butt.
I woke up, closed the blinds,
Checked the door (locked and shut)
Then reveled for hours
Of sedentary bliss
Never once caring
About what I might miss.
And as nothing happened
For a fair bit of time
I had no new ideas
And committed no crime,
Consumed no nutrition
And didn’t make noise,
And somehow refrained
From molesting young boys.
I didn’t feel sadness,
Nor did I have fun
So for sunday the score is:
Catholics: 0, Poet: 1
Today’s the day we give our thanks
To those who made the lending banks
Who’ll help us spend the day to come
By buying stuff until we’re numb.
We’ll also eat some spuds and birds
As we exchange our thankful words,
Then look outside and see the sweet
Bright lights of Christmas across the street.