What got you here, won't get you there.
Curls of hair tumbling down my chest,
Falling from my neck, The black on my face
Say I'm ready for battles to mate.
Each strand whispers to the other:
"I'll protect you from the strikes",
As they expect a foe, similar to me,
To punch, bite and scratch. Protect the vitals:
A cushion for blows to the head,
Where the control tower plans the win strategy;
Another for blows to the chest,
Where energy is supplied to the weaponised sinews;
Another for blows to the groin,
Where the prize of all this mayhem sits safely.
The times have changed, though, and such fights,
Are not the path to procreation.
Neither are our socialist governments
A path to independence. Protecting us
From blows from foes, similar to us,
They once curled, and some were cut out.
They took the blows, that we may be
But, the times have changed and such fights
Are not the path to civilisation.
They seek to control the head,
They seek to constrict the chest
They seek to conscript the groin.
They give the blows, that we may be
Free to do their chores.
In truth, the times have changed,
And even if the policies look great
It's time to go bald.