I have grown tired of most men,
but I love a man who gives me everything.
The kind of man who serves me breakfast in bed,
but sometimes it slips out that he is just like every other man.
I love this man who gives me most things—
like kind words and flawlessly fried eggs—
but sometimes it slips out he is just like every other man
when I feel him consider my femininity before my humanity.
When it comes to kind words and flawlessly fried eggs,
I like my love fried medium, bouncing with energy and jelly-like.
When I feel him consider my femininity before my humanity,
I feel like a solid, dry, overcooked yolk; cold and useless.
I like my love fried medium, bouncing with energy and jelly-like,
but sometimes you don’t know till you take your first bite
and feel the hard, dry, overcooked yolks, cold and useless,
like the excuses he makes to defend his misogynist idols.
But sometimes you don’t know till you take your first bite
if the yolk will pour into your heart or sink into your stomach
like the excuses he makes to defend his misogynist idols.
I’m very particular about how I like my eggs;
if the yolk will pour into my heart or sink into my stomach,
I push my plate away, and ask for my order to be met,
I’m very particular about how I like my eggs,
So don’t promise me something you can’t cook.
I push my plate away, and ask for my order to be met—
the kind of man who serves me breakfast in bed.
So don’t promise me something you can’t cook
or I may grow tired again.