At first they used
force to kill her will,
They stomped and
crushed and beat her ill,
Until blooodied she
never did dare,
About herself and
her wishes to care.
She killed her
passion and became a tool,
That enabled the man to
rule,
And while she
withered, he did dine and wine,
And soon his lot,
they flourished fine.
While she wept and
she cried,
And she lived and
she died.
Then they exalted
her and called her gentle,
And attributed many
a virtue to her mantle:
Of kindness and
love and sympathy
And motherly care
and wifely duty.
A role model for
all her sex they drew,
And all who stuck
to the bill were true.
If she
otherwise breathed at all,
Raised her head or stood tall,
Deemed they her an
ill bred whore -
Ungrateful wretch,
society's eye sore.
Then they
let her read and write
And as a child she
learnt like her brothers all
But as she grew
into a woman bright
To the kitchen and
home did duty call
And while the
brothers in their prospects gleamed
In the kitchen she
remained and cooked and cleaned
And all the verses
of poetry
That she knew so
well by memory
Simmered in her
mind like the soup she made
And eventually
cooled, forgotten and went fade
Her mind, her soul,
her spirit poor,
With every dying
ambition dear,
Bled agony and
suffered defeat,
Among the kitchens
pans and heat.
And with every
sacrifice she made over the years,
In her heart she
cried the bitterest tears!
Until the very
wisdom which would have made her great,
Bid her to calm and
accept her fate.
