AURORA'S RAP: Sleeping Beauty Revisited

AURORA'S  RAP
Sleeping  Beauty  Revisited
30 March 2003

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"So I will spend my wrath against the wall and against those who covered it with whitewash."  EZEKIEL  13:15

[Scene:  Aurora, a sleeping beauty, awakens in 2003 and,
on due reflection, speaks the following monologue.]

Once upon a dream
In a rustic cottage by a winding stream,
I dwelled in blissful ignorance,
Asleep, and never even thought to glance
At life, until awakened from my trance.
I thought that life was what it seemed,
Like very pleasant pictures beamed
In color, from a television screen
To tell a fairy tale or paint a pretty scene
Of sanitary homes and apple pies
Or quiz show answers with a money prize
And similar imaginary lies
In realistic guise,
Such as a father with a toothpaste gleam,
A kindly mother who is always wise,
Or a just, fearless cop who never dies.
And although she may run away and scream,
The hero always saves the heroine
Regardless of the danger she is in
Or howsoever hard the villain tries;
Because although they go through thick and thin
And many villains may antagonize
Them, movie heroes always seem to win
And in the end they best the evil guys
With style.  But as I wake up, I begin
To view this pleasant picture with a grin
And wonder where on earth I've been,
Perhaps out drinking booze and soused with gin
As all my adolescent friends advised;
Or maybe just lobotomized
To be a pleasant daughter
Full of mirth and laughter
And happy ever after,
Like Mom.  I guess that I take after her,
Though no-one could be daftier!
No wonder I see only blue skies
And cheerful howdy do skies,
Instead of seeing darkly-colored true skies:
Because the ordinary gray
Has been cosmetically brushed away
To make it only seem a sunny day,
When really there is not a solar ray
Visible, but only cloudy skies!
I never saw life with my own two eyes
Before and so I never realized
How whitewashed and how sanitized
Our public lives are:
To make life seem as if it's user-friendly,
Contemporary, cool, and fashion-trendly,
And something that can titillate and send me,
When it's as horrible as hives are.
And whether you're a commoner or Kaiser,
It's all the same
Whitewash game!
And what I thought was plain reality
(As plain to others as it was to me)
Is just an adolescent's fantasy
Made up of fairy tales and bad TV
That children shouldn't be allowed to see
In the first place:
Because the television room's the worst place
For any child to be--
At least if she's to grow beyond the stage
Of addled infancy,
Comparative
With how a chimpanzee
In its cage
Might live!
And yet a child, with guidance, can escape
Such simian captivity.
She'll soon surpass that ape,
Progressing to an adult age
When she can turn the page
From petulance and narcissistic rage
To philosophical maturity.
From that point on and ever after
She's deaf to prerecorded laughter
And "He-he-he!"
"How-funny-can-it-be?"
Or "Nothing-worries-me!"
Brainless hilarity
In front of a TV.
For there are never any reasons
To sit for four of television's seasons
(Including more of television's reruns),
Transfixed by situation comedy
Where everything is harmony
"You see."
This doesn't leave much chance
For children to advance
To moral strength and nonconformity
The way psychology has theorized:
But everyone, it seems, is hypnotized
To be agreeable and tranquilized
By what is taught or televised
On ordinary screens or megasized
Crystals, so that the old can seem like new
In higher resolution view.
Therefore we do as we're supposed to do
As hypnotists command us to,
And never question if it's false or true.
So our relationships are standardized
For every greeting and each rendezvous:
We process, stamp, and compartmentalize
Our thoughts and feelings in the latest style
Like ordinary merchandize
That our commercials advertise,
Or products in a supermarket aisle
Arranged and stacked in seasonal array
According to their price or weight or size
For easy purchase and display:
We taste a cake when offered a free slice
Or turn around a trinket once or twice
And look it over, say it's very nice
Then check the sales tag for the price
But put it back again on mom's advice.
Although the clerk endeavors to entice
Us, yet we have to tell her it's no dice
Because we don't have money anyway.
And then they rearrange the aisles next day
With something new.  And all the while,
Our personalities become routine
Like papered fish above a bathroom tile
Or kindergarteners in single file
Who as they make their way back to their school
Religiously observe their teacher's rule
And march behind her, like she was their queen
And they were mere attendants at her call
Or had no personality at all,
Like parts in an industrial machine,
As in a Charlie Chaplin movie scene
Where even Charlie's walk is comical,
For neither human nor mechanical
But somewhere in between.
Now if you see it on a movie screen
It's entertaining and can make you laugh;
But even as a still or photograph
As printed in a movie magazine,
It still expresses clearly what I mean
To anyone who's over seventeen
And uses all her senses and her bean.
But if I have to, I can spell it out
For you and tell you what it's all about
By saying what that scene conveys to me.
In comic style, that movie makes me see
We've lost our individuality,
Which is the basis of morality.
Perhaps our moral sense is not that keen
Because we haven't used it for so long,
So what's not right is never felt as wrong;
Or maybe we have simply lost our spleen,
And choose to temporize instead of fight,
Unlike the righteous and emblazoned knight
Who always thought of honor, never flight:
As in the time when bold knights-errant rode
When there was still a strong heroic code,
Before the age of heroism died
And heroes who became victorious
In strife, were branded as inglorious
Marauders and were hunted far and wide,
Their victims' deaths considered homicide.
And so their knightly ways could not abide
And we today no longer boldly ride.
Instead of letting conscience be our guide
As we should do when we've observed a slight
Of any kind, as to our wounded pride
(Affronted by what others say or write);
Or when we feel revulsion deep inside
Against an action or a social blight,
When standing firm for truth can turn the tide,
We choose to look the other way and hide
From speaking out or choosing either side;
And so we let a noble challenge slide
Away from us, not even having tried
To alter things or do them differently,
Afraid to have opposing views collide:
Like castigate a neighbor who we see
Is negligent in her community;
Or tell a cyclist to drive slow or chide
A colleague at the university
For voting as he did, because
He didn't vote according to the laws.
Such conscientious action gives us pause
And we excuse ourselves or hesitate
To challenge colleagues or a head of state,
Convinced that moral challenges can wait:
As if the worst in life was this:  that we
Exposed a simulated harmony,
Assuming that such gross duplicity
Was the only way for things to be;
As if the only real alternative
For us is that we shut our eyes and live.
We much prefer to think that we belong
Together, thinking everything's alright
And still believing so with all our might,
Regardless of how desperate our plight:
Like singing in a choir a gay song
With voices that sound confident and strong
In dulcet choral harmony and bliss
When everything around us is amiss;
As if afraid of spooky ghosts at night
But hearing creepy sounds that boo and hiss,
We hide beneath the covers from our fright
And dread much more to turn on our room light,
Which might reveal real goblins to our sight.
And this is then my rap's main theme:
That life is such a tricky scheme
No different from this,
To feel imaginary bliss
And make life seem much better than it is:
To make the bitter taste like sweet,
Insipid oatmeal taste like meat
And sour milk curds taste like cream;
Because regardless of how stale or nasty
The dish they put in front of you may smell
You make believe you're really eating pastry
And learn to hide your feelings very well,
Just like a salesman who beguiles
And gives assurances and smiles
To his prospective clientele
Of eager purchasers, so he can sell
A house he knows damn well
Is not much better than a gutted shell!
And so regardless what the taste be,
No sooner have you heard the dinner bell
No matter how you feel, you tell
Your family the food is swell
And that it's very tasty
And nutritious
And really quite delicious,
Although you notice that it's rancid
And should avoid it, like the ants did.
And yet instead of yelping,
As you should,
You kindly ask to have a second helping,
If you could.
Although your cup has runneth over
You never think to run for cover
But willingly endure your destiny,
As in the garden of Gethsemane.
And yet our simile's a little odd,
Since Jesus suffered for the sake of God
And incarnated in himself the Word,
Not only what the others said or heard.
And though he willingly endured the rod
And aimed for peace, he also preached the sword,
Because he knew enough to know that strife
Is necessary for a healthy life,
As when a surgeon cuts the body with a knife
Or nations herald peace with drum and fife,
While battlefields give life to liberty.
And yet the truth is not our cup of tea:
We suffer for domestic harmony,
As if things are the way they ought to be
And all that matters is that we agree.
And so you learn to tell lies with a wink:
Instead of telling others what you think
You ask for yet another cup to drink
Although the more you study it you think
The cloudy liquid looks a little pink
Like cleaning fluid from the kitchen sink.
Then, seeming satisfied and placid,
You start to feel a little sick, and slump
Down in your chair while clutching an antacid;
And after gulping down the final lump
Of sop,
As big as if it was a camel's hump,
You feel your stomach start to flop
And realize you cannot stop
The undigested slop
That's at the bottom rising to the top!
Regardless of how mannerly you sup,
By now you cannot help but know
The food below
Is coming up:
You race off to the bathroom and you bump
Your head while looking for a stomach pump
Or else a window ledge from which to jump!
Yet after that, you smile, and like a chump,
As addled and as innocent as Forrest Gump,
Instead of saying you disliked the food,
You tell your parents it was very good.
And to be certain you were understood,
You say it put you in an ideal mood
For just the perfect morning, knock on wood!
You even ask for more, so you're not rude.
They have no more, but give you half your brother's!
And so you end up doing what the others
(Your fathers and your mothers)
Want you to do,
Regardless of your point of view,
As if you want the same thing too
And never can be really you
Until you do what others tell you to;
The way a child is hoodwinked by his mummy
To swallow bitter porridge down his tummy,
Pretending it's delicious 'cause it's new
And it will really taste like apple stew,
Although it looks to him like witches' brew:
The kind at which midnight familiars mew
As on the evening of Walpurgis night
When bonfires burn so eerily bright
And all but those familiars take their flight.
And truth to tell, his mother looks a fright,
With speckled hair in curlers, looking quite
A witch herself, though only family:
She coaxes him and sits him on one knee,
And lifts a forkful for his better view,
Convincing him it's something nice to chew
Expecting that he's foolish or else wight
Like a medieval cavalier or knight
And hoping that he'll take a bite.
Then licking both her lips and talking chummy,
She tells him how delicious and how yummy
It tastes, as if her child was such a dummy
And didn't know the whole charade was funny,
Like swallowing a pill that's dipped in honey.
And if his mind is set to have his will,
The way he learned from heroes like Bugs Bunny
In cartoons, or Huckleberry Finn,
Who taught him ways that he can always win
By exercising just a little skill,
He eats the honey but he leaves the pill.
And thus he finds a way 'round every ill.
But the adults take over when he's grown:
The older folk have made their wishes known
To him, and it's his duty to keep still
And to pretend their wishes are his own,
While every wish that is his own is nil.
And though as children we're allowed to play
With models made of plastic or of clay
Pretending to ourselves we're Bronco Bill
Riding horses up the steepest hill,
Or a medieval knight who's bound to slay
A dragon whom he sets himself to kill,
In life we make the choices that we may,
And all those choices are in shades of gray.
And Jack may have his many flings and fancy
An Eloise, Elizabeth, or Nancy,
But in the end he knows that this can't be
Since one or both his parents don't agree
On any one of them.  Unhappily,
But for his parents' sake, he'll marry Jill,
And it's a marriage vow he will fulfill
Although they're doomed to live in misery.
For he's as good as any child could be,
Although by now he's more than thirty-three!
To please his parents and his wife's in-laws,
He gives consent to each prenuptial clause,
Avoiding any argument or fray,
Which really is a waste of time because
An argument is only good until
The others have their final say,
For it's their view that finally holds sway
Regardless of the view you hold today
About your sweetheart being pert and nubile.
For any kind of argument is futile
Because your point of view is moot till
You find that you are forced to compromise
And see things through the others' eyes!
For right up to your dying day
You always end up doing things their way
Until they've put you through the social mill.
And on your deathbed, when you feel a chill
Creep through your body and you start to groan,
You faintly hear a sympathetic moan
And hold your dying breath for just a while
So that your relatives have time to smile
For you in a consolatory style,
As if you're simply walking down the aisle
Or floating in a barge along the Nile
To Paradise.  Of course it's only guile,
Just like their tears, which we call crocodile!
But if you should deplore this
Remember that before this
They promised you more bliss,
And in the middle of your harried life
They tried to force you into married life
And parenthood, despite your howling cries
Of protest!  Then to fit you to the size
That they have measured for the perfect wife,
They have to tell you countless lies
And kind of push you and advise
You, so you have the sense to recognize
That any of a hundred guys
Would be a perfect prize
If only you would realize
Your parents are more wise
Than you and have considered all
You need to know in matters conjugal!
And yet perhaps they have a lot of gall
And it's a rather neat
Romantic trap to cheat
A woman of her reason
In the mating season
And sweep her off her feet
With gentlemen that she must greet,
Like Joe or Zeke or George or Nate
Who bring her chocolates and other sweets
With promises of life on Easy Street
And plans of weddings they will celebrate!
As if it was a woman's fate
To socialize and meet
A man whom she can call her mate
Before it is too late
To reach the married state.
For time, they say, is very fleet;
And so there isn't any time to ruminate
About a man, or plan or calculate,
Subtracting what tastes sour from the sweet
And making up the perfect wedding treat.
But if, by chance, she dares to hesitate
Or, asked out by a man, she gets cold feet,
She might end up a maid, and celibate!
And so she preens herself for every date,
Looking either sexual or prim:
A connoisseur of men, and quite discreet.
She acts as if she's scatterbrained with Tim,
Confusing a real sunrise with its sim
Because it's painted on a theatre scrim,
And understands by "Heming Way" a street.
She chirps that Rodin's Thinker  looks too grim
And wonders what the matter is with him.
The Mona Lisa's smile seems "kinda sweet,"
But Giocametti's figure looks too slim
And she advises one date not to buy it
Because it seems to praise a starving diet.
When taken to the tragedy, Othello,
She turns and asks her date just why the fellow
Looks darker than the other folk on stage;
Or why he yells, as if he's in a rage,
Since one would think a man should act his age,
Not rant and rave as if he's in a cage
And make his wife stand trembling like a leaf.
"Besides," she asks in whispers, "what's his beef?"
And then instead of showing tragic grief,
Unwilling to suspend her disbelief
She checks if she has lost her handkerchief,
Becoming nervous and hysterical
And fearing it's been stolen by a thief;
But when she locates it, she shows relief
Yet checks to see if she has lost her shawl.
Then as the actors take their curtain call
She says the entertainment was too brief
And quizzes her companion, "Is that all?"
And yet she shows a genuine catharsis
When her date remembers where his car is.
That's how ridiculous our date game farce is:
As far from reason as our Earth from Mars is!
Because regardless how she acts naive
With certain men, like Timothy or Steve,
With all the cunning of our mother, Eve,
And with the same intention to deceive
She digs inside her woman's makeup kit
To rearrange her character a bit;
And adding just a little homespun wit
And polish, stages yet another skit
With stylish confidence and grit.
And she is not afraid a whit
Because she knows she'll get away with it:
For any man's quite willing to believe
His latest date's pretensions, if they fit
His dreams.  And if the table's candlelit,
It's shocking what deception can achieve:
For with a spider's cunning she can weave
A hangman's halter from a satin sleeve;
Depending on her date, she'll change her shtick
And play a variation on her trick:
No longer acting like a brainless chick,
A foolish person or uncultured twit
When chatting in espresso bars with Rick,
She acts her age, and quite sophisticate,
Instead of like an awkward or a shy chit:
She'll fence with her companion lick for lick
And if he tells her nonsense, she won't buy it,
No matter if he may equivocate
Or double-talk:  Her tongue is just as quick
As his at repartee and no less slick
With terminologies and billingsgate.
However strong the coffee, she will try it,
While quoting Groucho Marx's sly wit
And be both funny and articulate.
She lectures on the movies that she hates
Or cinematic flaws in Heaven's Gate
And why contemporary films can't
Be similarly so extravagant.
On acting styles, she then expatiates
On how an actor builds up or creates
A role and how the actor motivates
A character's behavior and his traits
So everything he does communicates
The throughline of the character, or spine
That justifies the speaking of each line.
Though fond of actors, she'll not hesitate
To cite an actor who exaggerates
A part and why she cannot tolerate
How Tony Perkins acted Norman Bates.
Then breaking bread and tasting soup du jour
She'll settle in a cosy dining mood
And show she's able to enjoy her food;
But with the passion of a raconteur
And seasoned cinema enthusiast,
She can maintain a momentary fast,
Suspending her soup spoon midway
Between her mouth and her souffle
To argue movies are an art form,
Against her date's more literary norm
Of art.  Still interrupting her repast
A while, she'll make her own views understood
And use her napkin to compose a small chart
To show that there are standards in all art.
She'll rank, by year, which movies she would call art
And claim that films now are not so good
As in the classic days of Hollywood
When independents played only a small part.
She'll argue with another cineaste
On the career of a great couture
Like Edith Head and why her work will last;
Or talk at length of movies from the past:
The art direction or the perfect cast,
The vocal technique of an Ethel Merman
Or film scoring skills of Bernard Herrmann.
And yet to prove that she is up to date
She is quite able to pontificate
And discourse with a confident hauteur
On why Scorsese is a great auteur.
In fast food restaurants she will sip pop
And speak with savvy knowledge about hip hop.
Her date will have no need to urge her:
She'll speak at length, while munching her cheeseburger,
Addressing all of hip hop's subtleties
While sipping coke and salting her French Fries.
She'll trace the music back to ancient blues calls
And hollers, down to raps of Biggie Smallz.
Then with a Latin type in Little Italy
She'll argue music isn't only melody
Or arias, and that not every man
Makes music like a Neapolitan:
There's mariachi and the sea chantey
That may please sailors or the Mexican
And others whose aesthetic tastes are free
And not restricted to the symphony
Or the ballets of Khachaturian.
Then she will prove with typical elan,
Though Bach wrote many fugues, yet none of them
Would sound like worthwhile music to a fan
Of hip hop rappers, such as Eminem!
At best, Bach's music may sound only so-so,
She adds, while sipping her espresso doppo.
At night, she dines on mussels and chianti
And educates her date, who just can't see
The art there is in music by Ashanti.
She promises to lend him her CD,
Then orders both of them a whiskey sour.
In small cafes she enters with "Bon jour,"
And speaks with ease in French with the Monsieur
Who greets her, humored by her quaint inflection
Of his mother tongue.  She requests a tour
Around the premises, for her inspection,
Then opens to the menu's liquor section
While recommending, after due reflection,
An Amoretto or a Galliano,
Which she approves, by calling it perfection;
And after kicking off her high-heel shoes
She settles down as if she were the host
And clinking glasses with her proud paisano,
She offers up to him a cheerful toast
To music of Satie on the piano.
She follows topics that her date might choose,
But asked to comment, she will not refuse.
She may speak softly in a husky mezzo,
Reluctantly at first, but then less so,
And doesn't hem and haw or say yes-no
But answers firmly, sipping her espresso.
On jazz, she's no less able to enthuse
Knowledgably about the funky muse
And its unique aesthetic style in, say,
The vocals of a Billie Holiday,
Whom she pronounces as a great chanteuse.
And she is no less able to explain
An Armstrong trumpet solo or the way
Vibrato's used in solos by Bechet,
While praising dazzling sheets of sound that strain
Aesthetic form in solos by Coltrane.
Discussing famous paintings, she can rate
Them all aesthetically, with estimates
Of periods and composition dates.
On campus, with a literary type,
She argues scansion in a Donne or Yeats
And, challenged by a scholar, she can swipe
Her views on authors, such as who is ripe
To win the Nobel prize.  Or she may snipe
At those whose published work is merely tripe
Or if their chance for lasting fame is slim
Although their works receive a lot of hype.
Reciting texts to every Christian hymn
And authors' names for every pseudonym,
She can discourse until the other guests have gone
And even her companion's in the john.
No matter if the man is not that great,
Of if he has a habit or a trait
That she's especially inclined to hate,
Such as a man who keeps a childish pose
And with a finger digs inside his nose,
Or else says "dese" for "these" and "dose" for those
While at a concert on a rock-and-roll date,
Still she'll pretend to be the man's soul mate
And in agreement with his mental state
Regardless if she must equivocate
Her tastes.  He may not be a potentate
Or regal, and no matter if he's edentate
And old
And doesn't have much real estate
Or gold,
Except for what's inside his dental plate,
She's eager to appear considerate
And her attempt to please does not abate!
For Sacher-Masochs, she can remonstrate
Just like an angry mum, or flagellate
And use her stronger will to dominate;
But for Petruchios, she'll be a Kate
And show her passive side to demonstrate
A woman is a man's subordinate!
She talks of Mozart or Celine Dion,
Depending if she's out with Bob or Don.
Although well-read, in order to inflate
The ego of a not too well-read date
She will pretend to be illiterate;
And if of Shakespeare's plays, the man's read one
Of them, she will insist she's read none!
For she's a regular chameleon
With every guy.  She says nice things to him
And satisfies his every whim;
And although sometimes she may tease him
By arriving just a little late
For dinner so he has to wait,
She doesn't hesitate
To do most everything to please him,
Regardless of the mood she's in
Or if she's on
A different level he's on,
As if concern for her own needs were treason
And contradicted all the laws of reason!
For in the social clan
It's expected that a woman can
Truly love a man
Selected in her parents' wedding plan,
No matter what she thinks of him
Or if his name be Reginald or Jim,
And far too overweight or much too slim:
Or whether he's a boring nerd,
One of many in a herd
Of studious computer geeks
On a fraternal row of Greeks;
Or intellectually quite dim,
As if his dome had many leaks;
And though a novel were quite slim
It would take him many weeks
To get through it,
Only to rue it!
Because the art she loves is far too deep
For him to understand:
Just like a goldfish navigating land
Or like the mental leap
Of monks conceiving, on a hidden steep,
An image of the clapping of one hand.
Such art would only bore him
And put him in a mental sleep
So only Dallas Cowgirls might restore him
If they were dancing right before him
As television images:
Perhaps the sight of them might wow him
With cleavage they might show him
Between the football scrimmages;
Yet even Dallas Cowgirls would deplore him
If they were dumb enough to know him
For real.  Could anybody be more dim
Than he?  To live with such a creep
A wife would only sow what she would reap
And sacrifice herself to slaughter
Like a sheep
Or Jephtha's daughter!
For such a match would end in mocking laughter
From friendly neighbors who might decorate
The gay reception hall up to the rafters
With wedding bells and then congratulate
The lucky bride, but gossip ever after
About the match and her ill-chosen mate
And subsequently never cease to chaff her
For making such a marital mistake.
And though they might enjoy the wedding cake,
The bride would not have very long to wait
To see them act like mourners at a wake,
In tears, and willing to commiserate
And view her marriage like it lay in state.
And yet by then it would be far too late
For her to rectify, undo, or mend her
Folly.  For vows are not returned to sender
If a scorned woman feels that she's unloved,
The way a letter is if it is proved
That the recipient of it has moved.
A woman wants a husband to attend her,
To be her close companion and defender;
But he's the type of husband to offend her
When she's most amorous and in the mood,
Behaving differently than when he wooed
Her.  So, he leaves her home alone to brood
And wonder why she's so misunderstood:
One teardrop falling, followed by a flood.
And yet her sobbing does her little good
As she sits down alone to eat her food:
Because he'll be out on a weekend bender,
Becoming chummy with a pub's bartender,
And showing off to look like a big spender
Arousing gossip in the neighborhood,
Instead of being home the way he should:
Solicitous, concerned, and being tender
With a person of the proper gender
Like herself.  Of course, she should not fear
The depth of his commitment isn't clear,
Because most probably he'll send her
A Valentine Day's greeting once a year,
But only if there is a mailbox near;
And he'll omit the salutation, "Dear,"
And send a marked down card that costs a mere
Ten cents, which is supposed to bring her cheer
But which can only make her rue herself!
She would complain, but would he hear?
So you can see that he is quite a bear;
A brutish beast unequal to herself,
Like a rhinestone near a diamond on a shelf.
It's a her and his match
That's a perfect mismatch,
Like a hermit and a wristwatch.
To help us as we go,
Consider this scenario
Of Aurora and Lothario:
She may enjoy the music of Puccini
To staying home
As in a tomb,
Buried with the kitchen chrome,
Cooking platters of linguini
Or keeping busy
Washing dishes
And, in general,
Getting dizzy
Responding to her husband's beck and call,
Doing only what he wishes
Regardless what her wish is.
He makes a million bucks, is six feet tall
And thinks she's happy!  Is she?
She's better swimming with the fishes!
And yet he thinks that this is
What a married couple's bliss is,
Although he always misses
Even with his kisses.
For although he may pay the rent,
No wife can be content
To jabber with a gent
Who is so adamant
He is unable to enjoy the charms
Of  the Venus de Milo,
"Because," he says, "she has no arms!"
You ask me can I smile?  No!
After such an argument
What woman would be hesitant
To cross another continent
And live with kangaroo or rhino?
I know
I'd go!
I'd rather live alone, inside a tent
Or go with cup in hand, itinerant
Than live with one so ignorant!
No wonder I'm belligerent
And feel like I could strangle
A spouse who only feebly understands
Immortal art from such a mundane angle.
And, between us,
The blithe Miloan Venus
From ancient Grecian lands
Would doubtless do the same
As I would, if that hapless dame
Had not already lost her hands!
Then tell me, why do
You ask that I should even try to
Consider a relationship with men
And then become unhappy once again
With common symptoms of romantic pain
And other maudlin consequences
Such as the certain loss of all my senses
To only further aggravate my woe;
At last to end up like the tragic Dido
Who, rather like a flighty schoolgirl, was
Enamoured of the masculine Aeneas?
This guy preferred his wanderlust and dry dough
To well-cooked meals.  As if he wasn't able
To dine with others at a dinner table,
The way that you're supposed to eat.  Why go
To eat all by yourself, en route, when you
Can choose your dishes from a proper menu
Either home or at a cosy venue
With different courses, barbecued or fried?
And yet Aeneas didn't fit near Dido's side
And so he left, and left poor Dido home,
Because he had some business founding Rome
Or simply wasn't happy being tied,
Despite the amorous arousal
He must have felt.  This could not be denied
By him, regardless of how hard he tried.
And yet he had the fortitude to rouse all
His manly discipline
And leave.  Instead of being satisfied
By a relationship ideally spousal
And consummately feminine
As the epic hero's chosen bride,
Poor Dido ended as a suicide,
Apparently unwilling to abide
The injury to her romantic pride
And an attachment that she could not hide.
Now there's a lesson buried deep inside
Of Vergil's text, at least for readers keen
Enough to search beyond that maudlin scene
Of Dido's weeping for what might have been!
Remember that it was St. Augustine
Who, when still a youthful libertine,
Became emotional and cried
When Dido suffered love's despair and died,
Like readers of a tabloid magazine
Whom moralists of modern times might chide
For giving in to their more carnal side,
As if these texts were morally obscene.
And why so?
Because these tabloids aggravate emotions
That should be mastered by our higher notions.
For why would Augustine cry so?
Since even a tyro
Like I know
The antics
Of juvenile romantics
Like Dido,
Who at the first bloom of spring weather,
Vow their love's forever,
And that never
Will they sever
Because they're doomed to be together;
And even other words more frantic,
Such as, "My poor heart will go on,"
And so on,
As if there is a show on
And they must turn the first row on
With gestures corybantic,
As if they're in a panic
Like those on the Titanic
Greeting the Atlantic!
And although she should mock the man
And he should scorn her,
Still they make their wedding plans
To music of James Horner!
And regardless whether
They're two birds of a feather,
How eagerly they lie to
Each other, saying, "I do"!
And then I think that I, too,
Might end up just the same,
If, as luck would have it, one day came
When that naughty boy of romance fame
(Cupid is his name)
Chanced to take his fickle aim
At me, and, being blind,
He hypnotized,
Then matrimonialized,
My mind.
How well his fatal art
Can aim a poisoned dart;
And soon its poisons start
To break a foolish heart!
Perhaps I see a man who's pumping iron,
Looking like a beefcake copy of Lord Byron,
Without a shirt.  He's handsome, dark and tall
And has a hirsute chest and wavy hair;
And yet he doesn't notice me at all,
No matter what I do.  That's not quite fair!
Because I think he looks adorable,
With bushy eyeybrows and a squinty stare:
The type we call an intellectual!
Perhaps he likes Bach!  It's deplorable
He doesn't notice me.  I want to blurt
The words out, "We should stroll around the park!
I may sound bold and hate to be so pert,
But what's your name, good-looking?  Is it Mark
Or Michael?  Let's go shopping in a mall.
Or go with me to church.  Sit in my stall!
I like the way you look without a shirt!
With all that hair, you look so sexual!
I'd love to have your picture on my wall!"
Perhaps this sounds a little comical,
But that's what always happens in romances:
We meet someone and have to take our chances
With coy flirtation and romantic glances!
And you may even have to be more curt
And learn to speak a little off the wall,
Than if you meet someone at formal dances,
With proper introductions at a ball
Such as, "I'm glad to meet you.  My name's Burt,
"I wonder when the next slow dance is."
But sometimes decent ladies don't know how
To speak to strangers we may fancy.  So
If we see a cutie we don't know
We cannot shake his hand or nod or bow:
That formal style is out of fashion now.
Instead, we have to stage a special show
In order that relationships may grow,
Like Christmases of white from flakes of snow.
Perhaps a man will see me while I run
My morning jog with just my leggings on,
But looking pretty in the morning sun.
And panting loudly from aerobic stress,
Perhaps I give a signal of distress.
Or else he spots me walking, wearing nylons
And as I'm passing through the campus pylon,
Quite suddenly the wind lifts up my dress
A little bit above the knees;
A little bit, I say, but not a lot:
So do not misconstrue me, please
'Cause if you think I'm indiscreet, I'm not!
See, I'm a decent girl and that's no lie!
I am a lady, but I'm kind of shy
And really that's the reason why
That sometimes ladies must be rather sly;
And if I'm walking and I see a guy
Who may be in a car or walking by,
A decent lady simply can't say, "Hi!"
At least that's part of my philosophy!
And so she has to find some way to try
By any means she can to catch his eye!
But please don't misinterpret my
Intentions.  'Cause I'd really rather die
Than wrap myself in foil and sell myself
Like meat on a refrigerator shelf.
And although other women might, yet I
Would never show my skin, like pelt for pelf,
Because my moral standards are quite high!
It's true, my skirt is short, and I would freeze
If it were wintertime, as when a squall
Blows hard on New Year's Eve.  But it's July
In California, with just a breeze
To cool me now and then.  And I do not
Feel cold at all.
In fact, I'd say I'm looking kind of hot!
Although perhaps he thinks I'm just a tease,
Like wild honey for the humming bees.
And yet I'm part of his romantic plot,
And so he's interested in what he sees
And wants to see what else I've got,
And kind of wishes for another breeze
In order to confirm his fantasies
And other more romantic reveries
With which he entertains his mind.  He tries,
At first, to look away, but then
He looks once more, with roving eyes
And cannot help but see my thighs
As soon as Zephyrus has blown again.
And since it is a fact that many men
Are mathematically inclined,
And good with numbers, as with finances
And other brainy sciences,
He soon begins to exercise his mind
With calculations rather rigorous:
Perhaps today he's feeling vigorous,
Or maybe just a little curious;
And yet it seems he's making too much fuss
Over matters rather spurious.
'Cause a certificated academic
Is not as carefully systemic!
And pointers who see rabbits hopping out
The cove where they had hid
Or from beneath a grassy lid,
Although the chase has made them furious,
Do not look like their eyes are popping out
As much as this man's did!
More mental focus would become injurious,
For any more intense analysis
Could instigate complete paralysis!
And yet he seems oblivious,
Preoccupied by analytic bliss.
Because with studied expertise he tries
To calculate the contours and the size
Of hills and vales in my geography
As well as other mapped out parts of me:
Or else he looks in front, and then behind,
As if he majored in anatomy!
And although one should never moralize
About another person's taste
(For some like blue, and others hazel, eyes),
This interest in the anatomical
Proportions of a woman's leg or waist,
Or if she's corseted or tightly laced
Makes men's romances rather comical.
Instead of thinking if she's smart and chaste,
He measures sizes and, in ruttish haste,
Impetuous, he makes his judgment call;
And if she shows a bust or leg, that's all
A man in tandem really needs to fall
In love.  And if she is a little tall
(But not too much to make him feel he's small)
It's certain that the woman will enthrall
The man, regardless of her lisp and lall!
And this man is no different from them all!
He only took a stroll around the park
Expecting to get back at home by dark,
But Cupid's steady aim has hit the mark!
He looks upon me as his prize
And though he knows it isn't wise,
He lets a fire smolder from the spark.
His interest in me starts to rise:
Venus has him helpless in her vise,
And suddenly he starts to flirt;
And though I try
Not to, so do I!
After all, it doesn't hurt!
We should have made routine goodbyes
By now, but then I listen to his lies:
That he considers me his little pet
And I'm the only girl he'll not forget.
Though there was Susie, I soon theorize
That's past:  For when he met me he forgot her;
He'll treat me differently, 'cause I'm not her!
He breaks one promise, then he makes another,
But there's no need for me to make a pother
Like his former beau:  look where it got her!
He tells me that he'll love me 'til he dies,
And then he starts to rhapsodize:
He swears that I'm a woman like no other
And that I'm really like his younger sister.
In fact, he kisses me the way he kissed her
The night she died in Lafayette
(He wept so hard, he got his pillow wet);
So I should trust him like I trust my brother,
Since we're like family.  But when I fret
About his parents whom I haven't met,
He tells me that I really shouldn't bother
My pretty head about such things:
There'll always be other
Evenings.
Besides, to his regret,
I can't go to his parents' home just yet,
Although he promises I'll meet his mother;
Today, tomorrow:  There's a lot of time
Ahead of us to do those things.  And I'm
An understanding girl and not so bold
To question him.  And then I know how old
His mother is.  Besides, it's all the same
Whether I see her in her real-life size
Or only see her picture in a frame.
It's only later that I realize
He never even knew my name;
That I was but a sparkling flame,
A roman candle lighting up the skies
To entertain the sight
And make a spectacle for one short night,
But lasting only in our memories.
It seems like such a shame,
I wish I had a shoulder just to cry on
Since no-one really is to blame,
For men and women always act the same
Regardless of the passing fads they try on.
Parental ways continue in the scion:
Men take their shirts off, women paint their dye on:
That's part of what we call the mating game
As played by both the paramour and dame,
Deceptively at ease on Zion
Until they've made the beds that they must lie on!
Now Cupid doesn't seem so kind
To make us so romantically inclined!
Because what some call mischief,
Out of euphemism, I call grief
From which so few of us can get relief,
Although every now and then there's one
Who chooses to become a monk or nun!
The explanation for this choice is brief:
For some would rather wear a coarse wool habit
Than love, and multiply like rabbits.
Because however brief the wedding song,
We bring up children all life long!
And now, if I can use advanced didactics,
I'll show you evidence that's quite emphatic:
For all you have to do is calculate
Beginning with the wedding date
In June, and using simple mathematics
You can perform a simple hat trick
That multiplies as if it's magic:
You'll find a single summer marriage is
Sufficient to produce six baby carriages;
Enough to fill a five-room house and attic
And use up names like Emily and Patrick!
And yet it isn't hard to do that trick:
Like getting fire from a common matchstick!
If one considers published averages,
It's doubtless true that many marriages
Are solemn ceremonies.  And it's normal
To have a wedding service that is formal.
Once married though, and at our planned address,
Our honeymoons are very acrobatic.
Whatever part of marriage priests may bless,
No-one denies the devil has no less
A part to play in nuptial happiness.
Because despite the proper hieratic
Vows, spousal couples, in hormonal stress,
Are eager to remove the bridal dress
And consummate their nuptials on a mattress
With body movements that are rather spastic.
For who would think the body so elastic?
And yet our marriage vows are automatic,
As if not made in Heaven, but in plastic!
Perhaps they should be expiration dated,
Not blessed in church, but only laminated.
For very terse is
The wedding vow in churches
(In fact, it's only several verses);
But for an eager bride, too young,
Who hears the wedding bells' ding-dong,
The shortest ceremony is too long.
She wonders how much longer it will last for,
As she awaits to hear the wedding song.
Meanwhile, the reverential nuptial pastor,
In studious formality, with vestments on,
Takes his own time, and duly blesses everyone,
While adding, "Father, Holy Ghost, and Son"
Before concluding every orison.
Of course she makes a proper show
Of churchly reverence, although
The meaning of the ritual goes past her,
As if it was a rite for Zoroaster;
For love, not God, has now become her master
And she is thinking, "Hurry up!  Go faster!
"My wedding's headed for complete disaster!
"Please get it done!
"And play the Wedding March of Mendelssohn!
"Let's get this finished very soon,
"Don't take the whole damn afternoon!
"The congregation's been exhorted thrice
"And know of no just cause, or vice
"To interdict this nuptial boon!
"And we acknowledge no impediment
"Why we cannot give our consent.
"We've vowed to honor, cherish, and obey
"And love each other in the married way
"Until the two of us are old and gray,
"Just like we are supposed to say:
"Must we repeat ourselves all day?
"Must every vow be spoken twice?
"And what's the meaning of this pantomime
"In glacial movement and sepulchral time?
"People kneeling
"Without feeling!
"My head is reeling
"And I'm nearly squealing
"From the strain,
"My back congealing
"Stiff, from sacral pain!
"What's the use concealing
"The tedium I'm feeling?
"For soon I will be keeling
"Over!  And must we do it yet again?
"Please hurry up and throw the rice
"And start the church bells pealing!
"I'm about to hit the ceiling!
"Here it is, already June,
"And yet you're taking so much time,
"Just like a slowly passing helium balloon
"That inches to Paree in rain and ice
"To meet a deadline or else pay a price;
"It's buffeted beneath an English moon,
"Yet should have passed the Seine by noon.
"You've got to go much faster's my advice!
"To make me wait much longer isn't nice.
"It seems like such a crime
"Because I am already past my prime!
"I've waited long enough and I'm
"So eager for romance I want to swoon,
"Impatient for my honeymoon!
"Please don't let it take all my lifetime:
"It's now a husband-and-his-wife's time!"
And yet before the wedding bells have chimed,
Before the hoary organist has climbed
The organ loft, before the organ plays
The Widor, or the congregation prays;
In fact, before she's heard the words, "You're wed,"
She has imagined what she'll wear for Ed,
Her spouse, to please him in their marriage bed
After all the wedding cake and candies.
For she can't wear just any pair of panties
Or don a nightgown like her auntie's,
In floral patterns colored turquoise or
The red pajamas that her mama wore
While domiciling, in the days of yore,
When woman's life was a romantic bore
With every day a different kitchen chore,
Like mending holes in socks the husband wore
Or blowing children's noses with a hanky
Or adding bless you's after every sneeze
And ironing a pants to make a crease
While fighting off a husband's hanky-panky
Or his tobacco smoke, which made her wheeze;
Then kneeling down to grate the supper cheese,
And soiling both her hands with kitchen grease
While making a cold-water flat look swanky
Yet never once to hear a single "Thankye"
From a selfish husband who, quite frankly,
Spent most the time asleep or being cranky!
Yet husbands had no kitchen chores, but keys
So they could open up a garage door,
Their foot on the accelerator floor,
To speed to any place they chose, with ease,
Avoiding their responsibilities
By just escaping with an engine roar,
Away from wives, confined to bed or pantry
And either on their backs or on their knees,
Hand scrubbing floors or pulling down a panty,
Then counting till they heard their husbands snore.
Since married couples didn't know what for
Unless they found out reading Elmer Gantry:
Erotic stimulation was for nannies,
While married couples never learned the score;
For what they knew they learned from books and grannies
Who wisely passed along old-fashioned lore
About how women found sex such a bore
And where to find an orthopedic store
Because it made their backs a little sore
And irritated tissues in their fannies!
But now the married woman knows much more
She cannot wear the styles she wore before.
Instead, a child of fashion trends, she fancies
The modern woman must be up-to-date,
Just like a Playboy fashion plate,
In order to arouse, allure, or titillate
Erotic ardor in her married mate:
As if a bedroom was not adequate
To tease a spouse enough to consummate
The wedding vow and nuptial ecstasies.
Although her college transcripts show all C's,
Perhaps she studied her Euripides
Enough to long for Bacchic mysteries
As taught by raving Maenads or bacchantes:
And she'll be one, in silken and black panties!
And yet a solemn time is not the right time
For her to lose herself in fantasies
Of sexual abandon such as these;
And in addition, as the church bells chime
The current hour on the chapel clock
They seem to warn the bride and bedroom jock
There's still at least six hours left 'til nighttime!
Yet while the bride is thinking of
A fanciful romantic love
And honeymooning evenings in Spain
On balconies, with bottles of champagne
Or sipping cold Sangria
From long-stemmed glasses, it is plain
To see there's little gain
In having a church choir sing
A transcendentally inspiring
Ave Maria,
Since otherworldly church devotions
Are no match for romantic notions
Ignited by undisciplined emotions.
For in the sacred month of Juno,
Regardless of the organ playing Gounod
To the congregation's hymn in Latin,
No matter who the bride, one thing I do know,
All she can think about is, you know,
Romantic heights that she might climb
On bedding made of satin,
Or songs that pair such words as June and spoon
And other similarly trite rhymes!
Yet soon
She'll change her tune!
For how much worse is
The remainder of her lifetime
After the marital reverses
When she endures her husband's curses
For just agreeing she would be his wife,
As if by doing so she wrecked his life.
How quickly men forget
The stolen kisses;
And afterwards regret
The single miss when she's the married missis.
And then it's said
Of every maid
That in accepting matrimony
We ruin our husband's patrimony
By spending much too freely from our purses.
Our husbands vow to take us rich or poor,
So why should men pretend to be so sore
If what they had, they haven't anymore?
Yet men blame women for the curses
They endure, as well as life's reverses
Since Eve first listened to the serpent's hiss,
When that sly snake in all his craftiness
Explained to Eve that she would miss
A deeper knowledge and a greater bliss
If she obeyed her God's decree
That she not eat of the forbidden tree.
And this is truthful, more or less,
At least if you accredit Genesis!
See verses four and five of Chapter Three
On how Eve's sin brought men to misery
And was the cause of all our current mess.
For what we learn as children first is,
That Woman ate the apple and accursed is!
The Bible doesn't say what fruit it was,
But only that Eve heard the serpent's buzz.
For it was she who had the appetite
And it was she who took the snake's advice.
She could have told the crafty snake, "No dice!"
But heedless of God's wishes took a bite.
She didn't even have to listen twice!
Perhaps the woman wasn't very bright
Or didn't get sufficient sleep the night
Before, so couldn't judge the wrong and right;
Or maybe it was just a careless oversight!
But still God took it as a grievous slight;
Yet it was men who had to pay the price
Upon the forfeit of God's benefice:
For ever since the man lost Paradise
He's had to work by sweating day and night
In order to attract a mate that's nice.
Perhaps he thinks to add a little spice
And sugar in his life, with wedding rice.
But when he marries, then he suffers twice!
For soon as he has swallowed down his slice
Of wedding cake,
He quickly does a double take
And then begins to bellyache
And says his marriage was a bad mistake:
He could have had the same dessert for free
And didn't have to pay a service fee!
And guys use more offensive verbal licks
Attacking women so that they can fix
The balance in their gender politics.
It's like they do in pornographic flicks,
With women bound and bruised by chains and sticks
In order to give men their kinky kicks!
And so they'll say that guys and gals don't mix;
That it's no use to fight against the pricks,
For women always use such dirty tricks
And guys should never marry with the chicks;
Because regardless if the marriage clicks
Or not, all marriages are permanent!
And if a henpecked married man is bent
On being once again a single gent,
He'll have to pay a hefty settlement.
This is enough to make a man repent
His high tax bracket and his yearly rent
As he reflects on where his money went!
And though the husband looked on marriage sex
As nothing more than just a nighttime sport,
No sooner does a wife become the ex,
He'll have to cash his stocks for child support;
Or spend as much to litigate in court,
Assuming he is the litigious sort
And that he's not, by then, a little short
Of cash!  But this is just the man's report
And women must have heard it all before,
Beginning with the Bible's sacred lore
Of old.  Why should we listen anymore?
So now it's time to make a sharp retort
And show the basis of misogyny
Is fear over the wife's autonomy
Inside the home, by which she can control
Her husband and assume the stronger role!
And this is very plain for all to see,
Because despite his masculinity
The husband cannot boil a pot of tea!
And if he ever learned to fry a fish
He wouldn't know to put it in a dish!
And though a husband had the savoir-faire
To take a bottle from the Frigidaire
And then remove the cap to drink
And pour it in a glass, he'll never think
To rinse the glass out in the kitchen sink!
And so unable to defend the fort
At home, the husband, as a last resort
Takes refuge in a spousal enmity!
But since a wife is called the better half
Why should a man expect indemnity,
Or aggravate all Womankind and chaff
Because the woman had the final laugh
When she took over his domestic staff?
For if the man is master of his spouse,
The woman is the mistress of his house!
Except for putting food on top the table,
There isn't much at which a man is able
Inside the home, unless to kill a mouse!
And yet no man today would take his hat
Off to another man for doing that!
Because it's understood that women can
Enjoy domestic life without a man;
And that to kill a rodent is a snap,
If only one has bought the right mousetrap.
So it's become quite evident,
Regardless of the husband's argument,
The only thing he does is pay the rent.
So when a woman hears her husband grouse
She doesn't even listen to the louse!
She goes about her work and lets him vent
About his life and spousal discontent
Or in-laws in the home he may resent
Such as her little brother or her sis.
Yet all our discontent is relative,
Depending on the values that we live.
If you have heard his side, then hear what hers is!
But husbands like to diss us
And with their friends they'll hiss us
Until we're resting in our hearses!
And husbands vowing not to part 'til death
Regret their weddings to our dying breath,
Although they may pretend to miss us
When one last time they kiss us
Before they bury and dismiss us
With a service and a floral wreath.
But long before his wife is laid,
It's a death for which the husband prayed!
And yet it's she who helped him to his wealth
And, like a mother, watched out for his health,
While seeing all her beauty fade
Like a flower half-forgotten in the shade.
She ruined her own health as she nursed his.
And so we're better off as nurses!
What does it matter if we die a maid?
At least we'll be much better paid
Than in a lifetime nursing spouses.
For men are mostly louses
Whom we should not let in our houses!
And I can speak no better wisdom than
A woman's better off without a man!
It were better we were fast asleep
Than waking up to such a creep!
Now that I'm wide awake I want to scream!
(Forgive me if I let off steam,
But better I do that than weep!)
I thought that all the men were princes
Until I woke to all my senses
And washed my pair of rosy-colored lenses!
And now that I see past the morning fog
Every prince instead looks like a frog!
I'd rather love my kittens or my dog!
Who cares if they have claws
Or never shave their whiskers off?  Because
To talk to men, you'd think they don't know how!
It's as if they're in a trance
And grunt and nod at every chance,
Like talking to a wooden log
Instead of in a dialogue.
At least a dog can say "bow wow"
And a cat can say "meow."
It's true a man has hands
But it's a cinch
He'll use them just to pinch
A woman in the pants
Regardless of the circumstance
If only he can get the chance.
And then he'll say you broke his heart
But that it really is the start
Of an intimate romance
Like they have in Italy or France,
Where loving is an art
Enjoyed with candlelight and wine,
While lovers whisper as they dine;
And sitting over a romantic dinner
The woman plays at looking cool
Nibbling a course of garnished pastavazule,
While the man will try his best to win her!
And then, he says, you'll  never part,
Because you're victims of blind Cupid's dart
And thus each other's Valentine!
But although he may hold
You close and say that you're his queen,
He's meanwhile thinking of the centerfold
In Playboy magazine!
That's not true affection,
But loving in the wrong direction,
If I may be so bold
To say what must be told!
That may be your idea of love, not mine;
Although for men it works as fine
As easy come, easy go!
But don't you know,
Your sighing and your groans
Are coming only from hormones
That deceive you as you grow?
And it'll always be the case
The woman who attracts a man
Must always have a pretty face,
Or he would hardly chase
And woo her if he can!
And here we trace
Where all our miseries begin.
Because regardless how it all began,
The man forgets his romance in
Between the time it takes to do the sin
Until the day the woman isn't quite so thin
And looks like she has flabby skin,
Or if she grows a second chin.
No wonder young girls end up sick
In bed, depressed and anorexic!
But you needn't even look so pretty
To be cuddled by your darling kitty.
And in the morning, when you wake up,
Before you even do your makeup
And feeling kind of ugly,
Your kitty isn't any less your friend, or cuddly.
And truth to tell,
A dog can just as well
Retrieve a paper or a glove,
If that's the only meaning of
The sentiment that we call love.
If that is special, well, a
Dog can also find
A slipper left behind
By Cinderella!
And it's your pet that hears and understands
Your meaning when she's spoken to,
And nuzzles when you're feeling blue.
So men can keep their wedding bands!
For since I made my waking vow
My vision has a wider scope.
I've got a little more to prove
Than when I was a sleeping dope!
I've vowed to live a good life now
Or try at least, anyhow,
No longer feeling it's my duty
To be a princess or a sleeping beauty!
I want a fair shake
In life!
I don’t want to be a wife!
I want to stay awake,
Embroiled in storm and strife,
Instead
Of cutting carrots with a knife
Or standing in a kitchen just to bake
A penny loaf of bread
Or pass my life just sleeping in my bed!
Why should women act so dizzy,
Get into a tizzy
Saying "Golly" and "Gee whizzy,"
Behaving foolish
Juvenile and schoolish
As in a fairy-tale cartoon by Disney?
If wiser women think I’m wrong
Then quiz me!
You say that man is my superior, but is he?
Why shouldn’t I be strong
Instead of sleeping
In my room
Or weeping
All alone,
Like living in a tomb
And having worms and beetles with me?
I’d rather be quite busy
And get things done,
Like bees who hum
Inside their honeycomb!
Having just awakened from my little nap
I can see that marriage vows to princes
Are really rather senseless
And just a load of crap!
Even marriage to a king
Is really just a fling
With a more expensive ring
And patriotic songs to sing!
A royal wedding isn't everything!
Instead of just the fancy dances
And all the latest fashions,
I'd much prefer me dashing
To the finish line
And getting there on time!
Instead of wearing fancy lace
And painting up my face
While waiting for a masculine embrace,
I'd rather win a race
Or argue a judicial case!
Being passive's a disgrace!
The fact is,
Now I'm awake!  And, knowing better, I've
Decided that it's better being active
And, in sincerity, to truly live
With all the dedication I can give
Instead of being sexy or attractive
And an object for a man to wive!
Take it or leave it
And even if you don't believe it
That's your prerogative!
In plainer words,
Much saner words:
I want what's mine
And he can keep what's his;
And whether it's his romance or his kiss,
His bank accounts or gold card credit line,
Let him have them back. That's fine
With me.  And he will always be called Mister;
But don't forget there's Shakespeare's sister
Too
And you
Must call her Ms!
There's more to life than married bliss:
If there is Truth, then this is!
The rest is for the birds!
And that's my word
In case you haven't heard.
No more blushing,
Silly gushing,
Female fussing
Mopping, dusting!
Let them call me hussy!
Still I'll take my chances
And be free
To be the person that I wish to be,
So no-one ever disses me!
Why live only for the dances
In sentimental trances,
To snap awake at every dull romancer's
Beck and call
At a ball?
Is that all?
Why should I flee
The woman that is really me,
The woman having answers
To life's difficult equations,
Instead of asking all the questions
Of my husband or Ann Landers?
Why should I hide
The woman deep inside
Who walks with pride,
A little on the wild side
Of life, but safe in who I am
Instead of being Miss Aurora or Madame?
No more depressions
Or being sad
And making bad impressions
By wishing I was dead!
I'm glad
I've chosen life instead
Of suicide!
For what's the point in having died
Instead of learning from life's lessons?
You may say I'm narcissistic
In a psychoanalytic session
Of cerebral vivisection,
But read divorce statistics!
Regardless what they say
About your wedding day,
I fail to see things their way:
It's true that love and marriage
Are commonly indulged and may
Belong together like a horse and carriage,
But together they can go
Ponderously slow
And not as far
As a woman by herself inside her car
If she has hitched it to a star
Instead of to her beau!
Thus if a suitor should propose
The best I can suppose
Is that I'll have to answer NO!
I'd rather drive along the highway
Doing things my way,
Than waking to a wash-and-dry day
While waiting for my husband's love on Friday!
He may have romance on his mind, but hey,
He can keep his candy and bouquet
So long as I can have my say,
Instead of sitting silent like a haunted fay.
It's better to have stayed
In water like that Little Mermaid,
If no-one can remember what I said
Because I listened to my husband's words instead!
It's all romantic pap
Behaving like a sap
In silken dresses wrapped
By social manners mapped
And feeling very trapped
My mental powers sapped
Just trying on a dress or hat
Engaged in meaningless chit-chat
While sipping sweet champagne
That's gone a little flat,
But bubbles in my brain
To deaden all the pain
Of living life in vain
And learning how to love my chains
While doing this and that,
All equally inane,
Like changing diapers on a brat
And living with a boring chap
Until the both of us are fat:
Five children in my lap
And giving them a pat
Until they're old enough to scat!
That's not where it's at!
There must be more than that!
I'll not resign myself to marry
Any Tom or Dick or Harry
Or anyone my family may choose
Either by coercion or by ruse
Regardless of a very good excuse,
Such as the gander doesn't like the goose:
Perhaps he tends to have a smoker's cough
Or can't appreciate Rachmaninov.
Or if this argument's a bit abstruse,
Consider that the goose dislikes the gander
And never hesitates to reprimand her
For being who she is and not like him.
He swears he only liked her on a whim
But now, in fact, he cannot stand her!
My skills at reasoning are very slim,
Or else my parents must be pretty dim,
Since nothing seems to be of any use;
Because the more I struggle to get loose
The tighter I can feel the marriage noose
Around my neck.
It's aching me
And making me
A total wreck!
What ever happened to a woman's right to choose,
Even if mistakenly,
So long as she succeeds in breaking free?
And how long should I suffer this abuse
With proper girlish poise
Although tormented by rude boys
Who are determined to amuse
Themselves, until, that is, I blow a fuse
And make a blasted noise
The way a self-respecting woman should?
For what's the good
Of trembling in my shoes
So fearfully, and hiding
Like Red Riding Hood
Underneath her red burnoose?
Why should I pause or hold myself in check
Remaining hidden, buried down below
Like an oceanic wreck?
What the heck!
It's time right now
To know myself
And show myself
And how!
And with my better self in tow
I'll reach above myself
And learn to love myself
And in the end, I hope to prove myself
And be a better person than they know!
No longer feeling stupid,
A cozened victim of blind Cupid,
I feel bright now
And right now
I'm standing at my normal height now!
I know it doesn't take too high an IQ
For brides in wedding gowns to cry an "I do"
Then pick romantic spots that they can fly to,
And dream of dinners in a moonlight glow
Or mountain peaks and alpine snow!
No longer planning for that flight now,
I've made it safely through the night now!
Since it's no longer dark,
I can already hear a lark
Singing that it's time to make my mark.
I'll dress up all in white now
And proudly take a slight bow
As I parade around the park.
For I've got nothing left to lose
Except those adolescent blues!
I'm after all, a basket case
In need of constant praise
And supervisory approval,
Stuck in an ungainly adolescent phase
While praying mostly for removal
Of acne on my face:
I scratch my skin
And bite my nails
And diet all the time
To make myself as skinny as a rail,
As if to gain a pound's a sin
Or worse, a crime.
I live on halibut and lime
And yet it never fails
But that I never win
And mirrors never show me thin!
I weigh myself on all the scales,
And leave behind me plastic trails
Of diet bottles, hoping that their pills
Will be a cure for all my ills;
But nothing that I do avails
Because, in truth, it's lacking useful skills
That has put me on this treadmill chase
To nowhere;
For I'm disfigured by my own disgrace,
And facing problems I must face
Alone.  But I can't hope to grow here
So long as I can't cope, or know fear
Like I have known here
Alone here.
They call it "woman's place,"
But I feel wrong here
And I won't be long here
'Cause I don't belong here!
I've got to show some pride
In who I am.
And if it seems like I'm a ham,
Chewing up the scenery
Just like Mariah does on MTV,
I don't give a damn!
I think I'm better than I've seen her be!
It's time to go outside
Regardless if there's rain or snow outside.
Umbrellas go for any price,
And I've got boots in case of ice.
No matter what the pain,
If I should fall or slip
I'll get up again
And won't complain!
I'll take that freedom trip
To anyplace
So long as it's at my own pace,
Setting sail upon my red flag ship,
In ocean waters, to enlarge my space,
Until in time I see an open sky
Above me
And I will try
At last to love me.
I'll raise my head, stretch out my arms and cry
"Hip, hip, hooray!"
In celebration of a brand new day.
No longer will I mope or grieve
Like it was overcast or gray;
The solar rays can never blind me
And I'll forever leave
Bad luck behind me.
And when I play
I'll play with skill, not blindly
Regardless of the hand assigned me.
Then finally
I will be free
To be the woman that I choose to be:
The woman that is really me.
The crown prince
And members of the royal family
May claim offense and wince
At insults to the dignity
Of the royal pedigree,
But I won't hesitate or mince
My words or stutter or ahem,
Pretending doubt
As if I don't know that it's all about
My being me, not being them.
Because the sun is coming out
And even if I raise a rout
I am perfectly prepared to shout
That I am wide awake and see
The view that is in front of me.
And I'm no longer feeling sad
Because the view outside's not half as bad
As people made it out to be!
And please do not remind me
If I forget to look behind me.
For if I do need a reminder
Remind me how Lot's wife glanced back behind her!
The time is ripe to take my stand right now:
Why should I wait
Or hesitate
And keep my two hands on the plow?
So I may thank you kindly,
But what there is before me is quite fine, see?
Not very big, perhaps, but it's all mine;
A little dim, but it's begun to shine
Like a dark cave illumined by a flare
That shows itself as primitively bare,
Without a cupboard or a single chair.
But I can do without the corning ware
And fancy tablecloth!
Just give me simple bread and salty broth
And one glass pane through which the sun can shine
And I will not regret what once was mine.
I'm homesick, but I'm not about to whine!
It's true the food is simple fare,
But I don't care:
Just watch me dine
As if on caviar and wine!
Once given up for dead,
Afraid to make a sound,
I am already out of bed
Shaking slumber from my head
And ready now to turn
My wretched life around;
I know I'll have to earn
My room and board,
But that is something I can well afford,
Instead of having former spouses phone me
And promising to send me alimony
But always feeling like they own me.
I'd rather I belong to me only!
It's true that I was lost
And ocean-tossed
Abused and bossed
And double-crossed
By people that I trusted most.
I nearly ended up as toast
But never thought of giving up the ghost
No matter how the odds were stacked
Against me.  You'll excuse me if I boast,
But I've awakened and I've found
I'm not in pieces, but intact,
Waiting for the curtain to the final act;
Unafraid, although the house is packed.
Like someone on the shore who almost drowned
At sea, by stormy winds and billows wracked,
And swept ashore and yet, in fact,
She lived, and gained in strength to tell her tale,
Like Jonah did, when disgorged by the whale.
I'm back again, although a little pale,
And in the meantime I have made a pact,
In grand alliance with my better half
To make up everything I've lacked
'Til now.  No longer damaged goods or cracked,
Marooned, dejected, crazed or cul-de-saced,
I feel like I'm about to laugh
Just knowing I've survived it all!
Almost high as a giraffe,
I'm standing tall
And not afraid to fall.
And as I brush my stringy raven locks
I can't help smiling at the paradox:
Because although my looks are rather dull
I can't help feeling beautiful!
And although I am quickly gaining ground,
As strange as it may sound,
I'm really Heaven-bound.
And it is true that I am poor
And yet I couldn't want for more:
I don't have any royal staff
Attending me,
And yet I'm giving out my autograph
And mending me
The way I wish to be.
It doesn't matter
If neighbors are befriending me
And sending me
Proposals for an afternoon of tea,
Or if they gossip or they chatter
About my dresses or my hair
And how I'm getting fatter,
Or how my face is not that fair
And would look better on a platter,
Deep-fried in hot oil and a garlic batter:
Let them have their say
And plot against me in their way.
For gossip's just another way to flatter!
Uncertain of themselves, they soon grow wary
Of anyone who's not inanely carefree,
Whom they perceive to be their adversary:
Like I am John the Baptizer and they
Pale copies of a Herod or a Salome,
Enraged to see me reprimand or pray
For people who have erred or gone astray.
As if that's out of style today,
Like vinyl records and recorded tapes
Or comic heroes who cavort in capes!
So they would rather have me join the crowd
Than criticize its members right out loud.
And if I wasn't arrogant or proud,
They claim, then I would cheer the fashion play
At any cost, so others can be gay.
But let them do to me what things they may,
Because regardless what the ending be,
I'm used to them not comprehending me
And wearing faces critical and stern--
A tribute independent people earn!
And soon the royal prince will learn
The news as well!  From kindness you might say
I'm sparing him an exposE
He might discover one fine day
Inside a scandal magazine,
Unexpectedly
While buttering his toast or drinking tea.
Instead, I'm sending him a line
Or two, addressed, To Whom It May Concern,
Etcetera.  In sum, that I will burn
The letters he has sent to me
Confidentially.
Moreoever, I will add that he
Can keep his gems,
His jewelry
And royal diadem:
I've washed the royal clan out with the rinse.
I won't regret it, either, since
I'm happy to be rid of them!
Whatever used to scare me
Before I woke, now only dare me
To be myself.  Because when all is said
My reformation isn't done
For I have only just begun
To be myself!  I'm not afraid
What he or they
May think, 'cause I will have the final say
Anyway,
Not their fathers or their sons,
Regardless of the cards they play.
Rather, they're the ones
Who should beware me
As I repair me.
Just let them try to scare me
I'm not afraid to be contrary.
But I can be cooperative
Provided that they let me live
With dignity and pride.
Yet if they dare me
I can show my other side
As well, and be a Mrs. Hyde,
Aggressively myself and sometimes, rarely,
Even capable of homicide!
Because we all have dual selves, not one.
For those who wish to get some reading done,
The tale by Robert Louis Stevenson
Is educational and fun
Since it will teach you you can have a ball
And needn't be your quiet self at all!
It's true that it's a little scary
To make a firm commitment not to marry;
Perhaps to live alone
And on my own,
The only one unmarried in the town
When I can wear a royal crown!
It's true I should be wary
And not so cocksure and so carefree;
Perhaps it's well I should remember
That most decisions made in late December
Seem bad mistakes in early January!
But how much longer can I tarry,
Pacing up and down,
Expensive anklets clinking
Suppressing any inkling
That I can call my own,
And too afraid to frown?
Why should I act as if I've been well trained
Just like a seal that's kept to entertain,
With all my actions and my feelings feigned?
Why should I care if gravy has been strained
Or worry 'bout the color of a gown
And whether it's been cleaned or has a stain,
Or if the bedroom drapes are beige or brown?
It's time I slammed the door and went to town!
And what's the point of living here
When there is so much to be done?
It's better that a woman be alone
Instead of wishing that she were!
I'm not happy being chained,
And nothing ventured, nothing gained!
No more feeling that I'm sinking,
No more eyelids blinking,
Drinking
Pap!
I'm putting on my thinking
Cap!
And I can do without a map:
For I can find my way around
Now that I'm on solid ground.
And all I need's a little zap
To shake the cobwebs from my nap,
Regardless what may hap
And heedless of the thunderclap
For everything will turn out hunky-dory:
The clouds are gathering before me
But whether wet or dry, I'm bound for glory
As my reward.  For  I have heeded well
The Bible text my mother used to tell
In Chapter twenty-two, Ezekiel.
Go on and check it for yourself (verse thirty)
Where it's described how we can be God-worthy.
And I'm prepared to stand up in the gap
As God demanded in the Bible story.
Loud thunderstorms now only bore me,
Though they may scare a timid chap.
For into every life a little rain
Must fall, before the sun appears again!
And so concludes Aurora's rap!

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