A sectarian by gone state of bigot pigs with impotent minds
Gave birth to semi concubine constructs
The typists, busy bodied, giggly school girl, college graduate interns posed no harm
They were made to pose nonetheless
They posed
Nude to ogling CEO’s
They posed
Silent questions to their confused morality
They posed
Not out of submissiveness, but perceived necessity
For minimum wage
They posed
Nine to five, Five days a week
They posed
“Those Sheila’s don’t know how good they’ve got it!” Said a curly tailed, intern, male sycophant, to the surrounding long pork at the after work drinks
A high heeled, perfumed flower sitting in the corner of the business round table smiled accordingly, as she poured out the whiskey and compliments to undeserving swine
It was expected you know
It was how Fridays go
It was expected she’d reel in the two day delight
Expecting the weekend accepting her plight
Expecting to cook and to clean until late Sunday night
Expecting nothing in return
And what if she was?
Expecting that is
She expected she’d be laid off on the spot
It was expected and thus was accepted
But not by all
For in between her degradation and coffee breaks; heretic pagans burnt their bras and worshipped their bodies in the streets, renouncing their faith in the self-appointed gender gods
The missionary positioned, conservative business men cowered in horror
The subservient wives grew strength on the backs of femenists
They in turn grew backs of their own
Then legs as they evolved
They stood on their own two feet
And filed for emancipation
Those who had created inequality in their own image held desperatley on to their flaccid, defeated, dwindling members
They gathered in the dark corners of lodges, strip clubs and R.S.A’s staunchly for the whole world to forget
Lest we forget
Those brave ladies who fought for an equal world
