The voice of the women
is swelling and surging and strong.
Better shaddup and listen,
cos ladies be sayin
truth strait up from the ground.
Boss man, shaddup,
your numbers dont add up!
Your cruel ways crumble and crash.
Expect us to show respect?
Where is ours?
You act like you own the place. Please!
Respect your dusty old trophies?
You gave up vying a long time ago,
and all your epic boners
are nothing but stories, weve heard em all,
told and retold til theyre all dried up
and no fun at all any more.
In days of slavery a noble gent
rose above the dirt on a steed of entitlement.
But that steed is bones and leather
and that entitlement was cruelty pure.
We are so done with your importance!
You better respect your betters!
Mothers sisters aunts and elders!
Your hero man prerogative
hangs on the line a limp dead sock.
Even a gusty wind cant stir any life
into that old sock!
Let it roll up with the cobwebs
and scatter in the breeze.
All those old sagas now
just echoes of barks once yelped.
We used to pretend to believe
all that horseshit you backslap your bros with.
Get outa here with your nonsense
bout finance this and market that,
buncha phony magic numbers
all rigged for the house to win.
You think you playin, na,
you just gettin played,
and the loss imperils us all.
Listen to the sisters,
let the old ladies tell it,
you big men had your turn.
Its Earths turn now and we are all on her,
all together in the ruins of your pride.
Honor and serve her, Mama Urtha,
bow to the mother of all.
Respect your Mama
and all her earthling womben beings,
as equal agents,
and as systems and fields.
This Mama got tits for all,
tits for days and days.