Blaze you pony-tailed mongrels, Blaze you self-important yammering soccer-moms to be. You will become the songs of obsessed men and resentful girls. You’ll be more than you think and less than you imagined. You witches of the hallway, You keepers of the treasure. You run through fields and kick balls both for sport and for spite. You run your chattering jaws, a covey of pigeons a house of chickens Some not as beautiful as others… Some not as cool as others… Your all endless, constant. Never to love, always to please. Not all of you will become great women. But all of you talk too damn loud.
Do you really hate women that much? Has one in a long succession of others resently knocked back your advances by commenting on your sweaty face and pungent hamster smell? Bet you didn't bank on that response.
Hmmm...Actually, I didn't "bank" on any response. However, this poem is not aimed directly at women. I sat next a group of well-to-do teenagers (a soccer team no less, thus the ponytails) recently while eating. Believe me,they did talk to damn loud. Happily married by the way to great woman who laughed at the poem. I guess because she was there with me. Welp, the words are out there. Interepret as you see fit...If you read the last line backwards it will say that Paul is dead.
