wimp

to tower over a crouching girl

and pass her around in an ugly twirl

hand to hand in a stranger’s love

smiling as her eyes beg how

to blame it on her choice of dress

or how her lipstick shrieked yes

to call her a bitch and a whore

(see, she walked out of a pub’s door)

to fault it on her easy dance

or a casual sideways glance

to seize in God-given goddamn right

endorsed by bravado and by fright

to have her like a free Happy meal

eaten, burped, hey no big deal

to then beat the shell that she is

(what's a date without a goodnight kiss?)

is the sickest crime in the land

and no, not what it means to be a man.

ram cobain