Blackmailers Don’t Shoot goes Renaissance.
As the great Shakespeare may have said if he had a blog, “The fine art of poesy hath become a bastardized art form for untalented hacks, much like graffiti and deejaying.” Indeed, such appears to be so. For although the great Sir Philip Sidney once wrote that the chief goal of poetry is to teach and to delight, borrowing from the master Horace, in these rough times the Muse hath become the oracle of the simpleton, Viz. yonder poem from Katie Helm, which hath been quoted by Ace:
If my vagina was a gun, you would stand for its rights,
You would ride on buses and fight all the fights.
If my vagina was a gun, you would treat it with care,
You wouldn’t spill all its secrets because, well, why go there.
If my vagina was a gun, you’d say what it holds is private
From cold dead hands we could pry, you surely would riot.
If my vagina was a gun, its rights would all be protected,
no matter the body count or the children affected.
If my vagina was a gun, I could bypass security,
concealed carry laws would ensure I’d have impunity.
If my vagina was a gun, I wouldn’t have to beg you,
I could hunt this great land and do all the things men do.
But my vagina is not a gun, it is a mightier thing,
With a voice that rings true making lawmakers’ ears ring.
Vaginas are not delicate, they are muscular and magic,
So stop messing with mine, with legislation that’s tragic.
My vagina’s here to demand from the source,
Listen to the voices of thousands or feel their full force.
We shall leave aside the abuses of rhyme and metre, and ignore that the poetaste displays all of the sophistication of a Coldplay song, to point out that this obvious Popish conspiracy was clearly designed by Olde Scratch himself to lend credence to idiotic ideas. For this is the only explanation for the witchery behind this kind of idiocy.