Ode to the Performative Male
Some people will say this bullying,
Some people will frown at this, yes,
But I hope in their hearts they will know
My words are most ardently jest.
I glimpse the pack of tuna,
Smushed tightly in their bin,
Of course, they are not tuna
But instead a few young men.
They glisten with sweat
From trying so hard
To be accepted by the world,
I want to shake them and tell them:
You don’t have to impress the girls!
Their jeans are formless,
Their morals oft gormless,
And their sad eyes say so much,
But beware, for your care
Could lead them to think
Your heart they could reach out and touch.
Do these trendy fellows deserve much love?
Or will they siphon it all from a torn copy of Jane Eyre?
Will they flash me with dangling Labubus
Or walk past me with confident air?
Their shiny matcha cups are a badge of resistance:
“FOR GOD’S SAKE LOOK AT ME, PLEASE,”
And the various instruments playing,
Should get them through life with much ease.
I am much smarter than them, though,
For I don’t know the taste of defeat,
Instead of this hipster subculture
I’m dating an old-school athlete!
