Mulan

Circa 386, god had long sent and sacrificed a son.

Mohammad had saved mankind and left a closed will.

Buddha had reached Nibbāna, and it was a dickfest.

 

Mulan is born, all bloody like a man, and swiftly tupperwared.

Khan, a tween, swings his sword like he swings his parts.

She is fed porridge of filial piety, fodder and makeup.

And put to bed every morning and night, into newer and newer tupperwares.

 

She likes the makeup best – good fodder for masks.

In the dead of the night, she poaches a sword, expertly like eggs.

The ancestors roar, the men grunt and moan – the king among his men.

She grunts and spits along – no tween is immune to peer pressure.

 

She knows her task and the minefield,

as do I and you,

also born bloody like men, in 1986.

She will mine the honour – via highway dishonour.

In case you didn’t get the memo, or were born by caesarean:

 

Honour is the target, femininity is the only route, makeup and arrows are the tools.  

Menstruation is your bottleneck – no place for tampons in love and war.  

Anger is encouraged but only in makeup.

 

Good luck soldier.

You will know when you have arrived:

First, you must slay the Khan (not the Aga).

The king will reluctantly nod,

as will the Aga Khan, then

in unison, the ancestors.

At last, with sufficient cues – your old lump of a father.

Then the final bow, from your tupperwared mother, grey with anaemia.

And now the cake is yours. DO NOT EAT!

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1we4weg/before_death_could_take_the_blow/