You tell me I should strive to be like you,
You throw me peanuts and demand a coo.
You don’t care about my future but I should trust you.
I’m to be flattered you’d use me through and through.
Never seeing what you waste,
That part of me you’re so afraid of facing,
Never mind meeting, and fertilizing too.
The parts you like to adorn yourself with,
My parts that prove to the world I’m born female,
You want to stay toasty warm and never be questioned,
Inside my female curves,
And never really know my soul,
Though you claim loudly, prematurely, shamelessly,
You’re the soul man who knows everything,
That I’m lucky to have hooked up with you.
You don’t know me.
You know Barbie little boy.
As Bob Dylan sang, It ain’t me babe.