Scapegoat


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I “like” all the men who

beat on their chest,

claiming

“I am mind.”

and that

“women are crazy”

yet

“better with babies”—

here’s where it starts not to rhyme:

Would you hand a woman in an insane asylum,

a baby to care for?

In front of the feet,

of girls who can’t speak,

to gaslight all their lives.

I beg of you dears,

to start seeing clear:

it’s those men

who have lost their minds