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Poem

You buy into this PC-stuff,
it seems you always have,
but now I think that you have
gone just a little mad.
You demand I call you ‘Jane,’
when you were born a ‘Rick,’
I hate to say it, but I will:
Dude, you’re not a chick.

You can dress up like a girl,
that’s entirely your right,
and I don’t care a whit about
who you take home at night.
But if you think I’ll go along,
as if I buy into all of it,
guess again, I will not lie
and say that you’re a chick.

You my hate me for this stand,
but it’s one I hate to take.
To think you can beat reality
is always a mistake.
Biology is a harsh mistress,
for feeling sit cares not a lick,
your chromosomes are set in stone,
you can never be a chick.

And there’s a greater reason
why I say these things to you:
A forty percent suicide rate,
a terrible, crushing truth.
There’s no point enabling
a mind that may be sick,
to die from this is quite insane,
please see, you’re not a chick.

Don’t storm off and shout names,
don’t stay on this rough path.
Some things just cannot be changed,
cannot be brought to task.
I don’t want to see your picture,
in obituaries, proud and slick,
I’d rather you just get some help,
dude, you’re not a chick.

…a local was found dead today of apparent suicide. Jane Williams, born Rick, was reported missing by relatives yesterday. Police arrived at his home and discovered a body this morning…

God damnit.

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