(From a female point of view)
Why do all the boys leer at me so?
Are my arms made of money or my legs of gold?
I wear what I am comfortable in
But they think my choice a grave sin.
Do I tell them not to wear their undershirts?
Or those shape-revealing “swim suits”?
Why is it always my fault when they’re wrong?
Are they children to not keep their hands down?
Why do they think of me as angelic or sweet?
Do I carry a harp or sport wings?
And if they consider me so divine,
Why do they treat me as if I were a swine?
Is it so much to ask for basic respect?
Or am I a patient for their fluids to inject?
I’m not asking too much.
And I’m not speaking too loud;
I’m maintaining my ladyness
While with catcalls they shout.
So if I may ask,
With the highest politeness and grace,
Could you please not
Touch my waist?
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