Who lied to you?

Who lied to you, backward woman that it is acres of horse fur that make you more of a woman? Who in his right mind told you that a skin with foreign leprosy is what you can proudly call beautiful? Colour is beautiful, but only if it is yours, not purchased like painkillers over the counter. You woman, who goes to receive injections to get bigger behinds and bigger breasts, why don’t you take a book instead and get bigger brains? Why don’t you sit by the fire and mend your personality instead of clicking pictures of your lean behind to market your tattered and unsalted resume’? Young man, you half-wit who takes time to plait your hair, you cancerous fool who sits through manicures and pedicures, smear fat on your lips to look like a glutton who overate mutton, rip your pants off and wear a skirt. Chop your penis off and ask for a vagina. Kneel down and fault God for giving you pebbles instead of fully grown nipples. You walking embarrassment, a chimpanzee forgotten by evolution, you who shows to all and sundry your greying buttocks, like a mourner who just spent a month rolling in ashes, piercing your body to look like a hunt gone wrong. What are you? Metal or man? Yes I am talking to you, yes you pea-brained nitwit. Donning of short skirts to give the world a view is not flaunting feminism. It is not in any way a sign of self-awareness; it is self-deceit and a show of a tanking self esteem. Wearing a blouse with cleavage enough to show us your ribs is not flaunting what your momma gave you. It is making the omnivorous population loathe meat and turn into vegetarians. If there is something your momma should have given you, then it should be morals. They should have let you know that sex is not the only way to climb the ladders of life. Real women climb using their feet, not a bunch of tools meant for reproductive purposes.  Women in history are not remembered for what they have between their legs but what lieth between their ears. Women of substance move the world, not the loins of randy men. Who lied to you woman, that thin is the most beautiful, you starve yourself so as to fit into a piece of cloth, but when you walk you look like marasmus awoken. You prefer to look alive when you walk down the street and are turned on by the stares of those that pity you. How do you feel when you get home and take of all you wore? What do you feel when you are finally home and nobody is watching and complimenting? Why exude life on the outside yet you are dead inside? What vanity not to live for you but for all of them? And men, you lazy boys who think wealth is cultivating worms in your acres, your master the tummy, get your lazy bum off your sofa. Get out and grow some balls, like all men outside in the world. Outgrow the Playstations™ and work like real men. What kind of man worth his balls sits down a whole day to curse a millionaire Pogba and Rooney because they didn’t score on the screen? Get out and fix your self-inflicted poverty first then curse your fellow rich men.