That wasn’t nice, what they said, about my thighs.
They are just coloured.
Is it my fault that the colouring clomped outside the lines?
If they weren’t thighs they would have been cannons.
If they weren’t palettes they would have been guns.
If I wasn’t this woman I would have
Clawed to become one.
And my hips. It’s never nice to talk about them. To salute them is nice.
When I hear them saying Look at them hips walking down the street
I storm and say I am not all hips & I am walking up the street.
These hips, they could be grenade launchers & M18s.
Here, look at this.
Here is me the minefield. They will be sorry to step on me.
In this terrain I buried mines. They won’t even scream.
See? Nuclear power got nothing on me.
So be nice.