Call me butch or call me a dyke,
Call me a muff diver, if you like.
I eat whipped cream because I can,
So why is my life defined by a man
And do you care if I don’t or I do?
You want to know if I will do you.
Your language is my living hell;
Your words encase me in your shell.
A gal, a lady, a broad, a chick?
You get to decide because of your dick.
“Intelligent woman” is not on the table;
It can’t be that simple, I need a label.
So if I want to sell my ass
Over lobster dinner and a wine glass,
Your glance defines me as a whore.
Subtleties don’t matter any more.
At the risk of making it more complex,
Know I can match you when it comes to sex
But when there are times I don’t give a shit,
You should learn to deal with it.
You’d sell your soul in pursuit of a dream
(Status, power, a money-making scheme),
Squander your body on a physical whim.
We don’t judge it the same if its her or its him.
My line of work, the games I play,
Are measured by how far I stray
From your conceit. When I cross the line,
The fault is absolutely mine.
The person that I choose to be
Your selfish eyes refuse to see.
If I do not keep my place,
Will your fist defile my face?
My pay scale is your dollar’s fraction.
My gains become your ego’s subtraction.
Your kids are in my custody
As if power means no responsibility.
When I am alone I am not with you–
Another way of saying that what I do
By definition is not about me.
“Man” is in “woman,” “he” is in “she.”
Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2010.