’Twas the night before a feminist Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, ’cept Diana Boston and her mouse.
The blanties were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Dworkin soon would be there.
The gender studies students were nestled snug in their beds,
While visions of slut walks danced in their heads.
With me in bed all warm with my cats,
I’d closed SCUM Manifesto and decided to nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed thinking a stalker on ladder.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tripping on my dildo I fell with a crash.
I peered through the window like an old creepy male.
I stared out and exclaimed, “Oh man—what the hell!”
What to my oppressed eyes then did appear,
But a pink sleigh pulled by eight flying simps in bondage gear.
With a hairy old driver so angry, that bitch!
I smiled ever so slightly while my panties did twitch.
More rapid than state funding, her flying monkeys came,
And she hissed and she cursed and she called them by name:
“Now Kimmel, now Stewart, now Clinton and Alda!
On Gosling, on Flood, on Biden—Obama!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Cis male scum ’n all!”
To the women’s shelter rooftop the male feminists flew,
With the sleigh full of hate and St. Dworkin too.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Dworkin came with a bound.
She was dressed all in spandex from her head to her foot,
And her clothes were all stained with much food grease and soot.
A bundle of baby foreskins she had flung on her back,
And she looked like a whore with a huge sagging rack.
Her eyes were hollow and her moles were hairy.
Her hair was all matted with spittle—quite scary.
Her gaping mouth was drawn down in a frown.
Her breath smelled of cat shit and her teeth were all brown.
Her shirt said “#YesAllWomen” and “men are dumb.”
I knew right then that I wanted me some.
She had a hideous face and a huge round belly
That shook when she talked, like old K-Y Jelly.
She was crusty and smelly—a ripe old self,
And I sighed when I saw her in spite of myself.
With a fart and a scratch she started to work,
Filling the panties, and then turned with a jerk,
Grabbing her crotch and picking her nose,
Then giving a huff, up the chimney she rose.
Waddling to the sleigh, to her oppressors she yelled.
And away they all flew—like their balls that she held.
But I heard her swear as she drove out of sight,
“#killallmen and to all women good night!”
