Work for a career, but first become a mum, strive for some equality so men can rate your bum. Bit too late to burn your bra, coz gravity ain't kind. Pendulous or buxom with an overactive mind. Choose the mask you're gonna wear? You'd love to have that choice; career and kids and house and all, you'll somehow lose your voice. Pharma's got its finger in to manage PMS, regulate our hormones, stir this big hot mess. Picture-perfect instagirls with fuckall else to do but primp and prime then pose and whine a selfie-imposed zoo. The gender lines are blurring, changing with the breeze, but women have a job to do:
responsibilities...
to the species...
inner beasties...
genetic treaties.

We're not machines...
our genes have dreams...
immortal screams...
rip at the seams...
so it seems.
Memes.

This is the poem that responds to the following poem: Drunk Song: The Evolution of Woman.. Please click the link if you'd like to see it more clearly. Or, you can zoom in with your browser to get a closer look.

Thanks for reading
Anj x

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