Why insolence, thy, cherished bliss
And modesty, thy game, of shame
With glycerine tears, who sells, malice
Prejudice, whose pride, womanhood, her name!
Her plastic skin, can’t feel, anything
But the gropes, fondles, of, moneyed men
Every fling, is their means, of existing
Who write “Love’s a, sweet curse”, with, poison-pen!
When façades, fall off, and the skin, droops down
MEN-CESS, end in, MEN-O-PAUS-AL Misery
Moral martyrs, become, tarts of, Tinseltown
And scrape, a living, from the, #METOO Orgy!
All men, they pleasured, in their, flirty years
Are ‘Rapists’ now, of those, bygone affairs
From feminism’s, backdoor, their sin, escaped
Those Divas, Who Once, Loved To Be ‘Raped’!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra