The men of the world
They hate their mothers
They hate their sisters
Some claim
It's in the name of love,
But it's blatant
There is loathing in their core.
Lashing out with the whips
They were given on their birthday,
Their mark is made.
And when they're through,
Their women are adorned
With veils to cover all
Their bruises and gashes.
At the end of the day
The boys sit down for dinner
And say,

"Look Ma. Look how clean my hands are."