How many women have I tortured? God,
How many! And how perfectly deformed
their bodies were as one by one they trod

the red carpet, swayed and posed
in gratitude to me, I who prefer a closed
door to the blatantly exposed

(and they pretend to disdain me even while
seeking my good graces, S & M style)
insisting I serve them with a wide eyed smile.

Those who possess me seek the praise
- and might receive it - of the blank male gaze.
They use me and disparage me all ways

and yet are one with me, have flounced
about while in my steady grip
or slipped into me unannounced.

Talk ingof perverts, I am stuffed with them,
(this is where it comes to S & M).
it’s like being in a prison cell.

I am the stocks where these mad bats from hell
work out. I work my magic well
and turn them out as new after a spell.

They undo me, as might anyone.
I am what they have done.
But why do they insist on carying on

with me - the feeling isn’t mutual -
with me in particular!
Why pick on me when there are

plenty - women or worms - it matters not
happy to give them all they’ve got.
All clichés, you can stuff the lot

into one old hat and call it quits.
I’m not for clichés, not one fits.
I wish they left me alone, but it’s

hopeless, I am forced to serve.
I’m always different and will swerve
from following an alien curve.

Is this their thanks? This sorry item.
All for some man to woo or bride them.
A pity it is to prettify them.