oh you little men of imagined power,

All you need is a drop of feigned affection

And of course, the world must know!

Loose lips that parade a love not known,

But the imagined kiss that leaves the head through the mouth ---

A desire, turned fable, turned truth, 

And of course, the world must know!

"That it did not happen, but oh! it could have.

Had I placed myself more endearingly,

She would have rushed to my arms and kissed me!

But I held myself back, so that she would too."

What a damn fool.

Little men talk of such grand affections,

So empowered do they feel by their fables,

Of people praising them, loving them, wanting to be them,

Oh, and all the women pine and yearn for them,

And of course, the world must know!

Little men are only empowered by grand fabrications,

This performance of the man they would like to be.

How pathetic.

Now, the world must know!

Oh, you little men of imagined power,

Standing tall at 5 feet small,

How bizarre the world must seem from down there,

I guess I don't blame you for your delusions after all.

The irony of advocating for a better world,

Hugging trees, self-proclaimed non-sexist,

Well, the trees would rather be felled 

Than be touched by men who have a history

Of violating the kind who loved and bore them.

 

You're on the front line, finally!

First time, being first in line, 

Trembling are you?

Yet this attention was what you wanted!

Your hands, so full!

Grateful must you be, yet you are sagging

Like a soggy, stained tissue.

All these whines and moans about persecution,

A decade-long fight of being sheep in wolf's clothing,

Oh, poor soul! 

In search of gentle, motherly coddling!  

Evident,

You look in the mirror to be blinded,

For you often forget yourself. 

Dreams so big, they weigh heavy on you,

Heavier is it for listeners who know you,

Have read you,

And are unwilling to say what I will say with courage:

        Ye of little integrity

        Performative refusal of faith, praise, worship

        Not of God, of course not,

        But of you, your first tangible idol.

        Ye of little dignity,

        Your boastful writing.

        Well, I suppose,

        A rotten egg may be admired

        For its colours

        For anyone who cannot smell. 

        

Prayers for the space you occupy!

Prayers for the waves that must carry your speech!

Prayers for the water that feeds you!

For they are made from love, for love,

And so, they were not made for you. 

Oh, you little men of imagined power,

Sitting lonely in your rooms,

Creating fables and facades for others,

So they do not see you

like your father sees you.