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Look at me . What do you see?
A host ripe for the spawn of your disease?
Say you love me. I know the truth.
You want to fill my womb with rotting fruit,
to use my blood for the demon seed gestation,
and propagate and a brain-dead population.
Call it a crime- my body's liberation.
I charge you with aggravated procreation.
No father, no bishop, no preacher, no priest.
Keep your rosaries out of my ovaries.
I'm not a virgin. I'm not a martyr.
I'm not you 're wife, can't make me a mother.
You may try-may think you're succeeding,
but I brew tea that stops the breeding.
If the filth pustulates, I have a plan.
I'll rip it out with my own two hands