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Pleasant Things

Old white women
The few, the proud
Defending us all when
There’s a hateful crowd

O, the venerable old white women
They like pleasant things
Sold with old white man’s acumen
A painting, a potting, a poem to sing

They fill up the galleries and boards,
the gardens, the place of their choice
They fill all the platforms in hoards
To give the voiceless a voice

With old white man money, shrewdness, power
We herald in now, the old white woman’s hour
To defend the down-trodden and sour
The beaten, battered, those without dower

I, too, am a white woman
For I’m not the villain
How could that be?
I defend against such villainy!

So step aside, savage
Coloured, queer, crazy, the rest
You should know now that I know the best

No one wants to be
The big bad guy
Or to shed resplendency
From things that we buy

So instead of admit
We do evil shit
Ourselves, we’ll acquit
Say I’m complicit?
HAH! Nuh-uh, we’ll buy it

Because when I put my manicured feet
On the chaos of the street
I cannot compete
With reality of defeat

Helped the worst off
But I exhale in a huff
They shoot themselves in the foot
‘They deserve where they’re put’

That’s what I have to say
Because to my dismay
Lingering under my mental fray
My comforts made them this way

Those thoughts I can’t reconcile
To the idea I could I be so vile
So I ignore the trial of my amorality
And make pleasant things for inside a gallery

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Do you normally dislike poetry? Me too! It turns out, I like writing it, but I cringe at the thought of the stereotypical puffy culture surrounding it. If I want to smell my own farts all day, I stuff my belly with garlic and onions, thank you very much.

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