Popcorn Bowl

On each Superbowl Sunday
In the United States
Two teams of eleven men
Get in each others’ face —
A number of int’resting things
That day also take place:

Of all the days that pass
In this culture’s social year
This is the single one
Our women most will have to fear
For if the home team were to lose
It’s going to cost them dear

More frequent doth spousal abuse
Occur on this than any day
Those ultimate eleven men
Don’t line up to play —
And if they win, the next thing is
To knock himself a lay

As well as of abuse,
The demographic data show,
Another spike in numbers
It would behoove us all to know:
For more new human beings are
Conceived, beginning here to grow

On that very same Sunday!
So closely we identify
Our flaccid armchair manhood
Which will not dare defy
Injustice or inequity
Nor prejudice belie

But seeks the weakest member
Of its close aquaintanceship
If lose, upon her ear
If win, her back, to flip —
It seems that on reality
We are fast losing any grip

You’ve got some macho? Build a house
For someone who has none
Get out a real live football
And some kids, and have some fun!
Then you won’t feel the need
To take it out on anyone

Home to the little woman go
Enforcing her to share your mood
And sex or sorrow choiceless know
Revenging your ineptitude
At finding a real outlet for
Any real manliness, my dude

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