A little stream of consciousness rant. I can’t bear people patronising me.
I’m no country bumpkin
No naïve ingénue
So why, my friend,
Do you treat me as one?
I can understand French,
Read Latin
Decipher hieroglyphs
On a tomb wall,
Site-read music.
Can you?
I can write an essay
To impress an Oxford don.
I can pen a story
To shock, to entice,
To appal
Even the hardest of souls.
I can weave with words
Can you?
I can sew myself a dress,
Knit lace,
Sculpt a face.
Can you?
I can spin records,
Fill the dance floor.
I can curl my spine
Bend over backwards
Rest my head upon my feet,
Or step an old folk dance.
Can you?
I can debate;
I can argue through hate
I can’t be sold,
But I can hit gold
With an arrow and a bow
So
Why do you patronise me?
Categorise me
As some little thing.
Belittle and mock me.
Ignore and block me.
Go ahead, sweetheart
Crown me with the dunce’s cap once more
Sling the old clichés at me.
Reduce me to type.
Stereotype.
It’s easier than having to think
Isn’t it?
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