Stained blue like rotten cheese
and the blood of aristocrats. Good boys,
in good shirts with the right socks on.
Grab your ass because you’re a feminist.
Get turned on when you punch them in the dick for it.
Call themselves gentlemen, with morals
on sale to whoever benefits them most.
People so kind and accepting
as long as you’re quiet, good, adoring.
Until you need help
or one of their own beats you. Blind eyes
And they seem to have lost the ability
to utter the word ‘Sorry’ as though the stench
of cows and malt brewing
has burnt the synapse for apologies.
Don’t be too honest, too personal, too real.
Don’t tell them how you feel or
ask them not to stab you because
how else will they feel good
about their rotten selves.
Lying for the highest bidder,
social status and a place
at the bar.