Who put shame in a woman’s breast,
Obscenity, in her defining curves?
Who labelled her legs immodest
and the fall of her hair sensuous?
The same, who
oiled sin into the sight of her skin
and oggled
at the rhythm in her gait.
What yards of muslin, silk and cotton
Can protect her
But blinkers on eyes
That wait to judge her.
And when all is said,
Thank god trees have
no vaginas
The fruits remain pure
And mountains push out no
Sons for sure.
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