a chest of jest

Fretty, petty ladies,
shrill and scream,
over the scratches on their babies.

Forget the babies, ladies,
you both have rabies!
You gnaw away at the men with chests.

But the fretty, petty ladies,
think they're something,
because they've got breasts.

But, no, there's more, there's more:
Here comes the chestless chap.
Shying any responsibility,
he claims to be the victim of a trap.

No matter how hard he works - for he is always working - even in self-professed laziness - he exausts himself simply in seeking the start.

A start is somewhere, a start can be anything.
But a start is something he cannot find truth in.
He could lie to himself and say that any start is something, but he doesn't feel like lying today.
While this means he can't resign himself to a start, it doesn't mean he is resigned to the stopped position he is in.

He knows that resting in the nothing - the pre-start - the stop - is also an OEM purchase of a lie.

Oscilating between starting and stopping, the chestless man buckles under the tyranny and like a drowning engine you can't keep pushing his button. You can shove him around and he'll go wherever you do - but he's essentially a burden - truly a liability, unless he's good looking - those kind you can at least arrange with the furniture.

Those chestless chaps that have a social bent to them, will bring down whatever they can - because if they can't start - no-one is allowed to start either.

The only problem I have with the chestless men are that I think they actually may have a point. Then again, it's really no place for me to say that they do, because in fact, I'm one of them.

As for the fretty, petty ladies - I can't really look down on them either - sure, a scratch is something, and yeah, they are well endowed.