I’d rather be cut by the grinding teeth
Of the clipper than be burnt
By the dryer’s version of hell.

I’d rather continually labour Day and night
For a family than just for some days
After nine months of burden.

I’d rather be coarse, broad
As a mahogany, than be tender,
Feeble and soft as a rose.

I’d rather be rough and enduring
As giant grasses than be freshened
With the transient beauty of the rose

I’d rather be so ugly as to bare
My broadly muscled thorax for air
Than with strange cloths be cupped.

I’d rather be able to sit as I like,
With legs often apart, as I wish,
Than be constrained by prying eyes.

I’d rather be able to say my mind.
I’d rather be bold to tell whomever I love
Than wait for them and then “think about it.”

I’d rather be dull but natural
Than placed under daily masks -
Of shaded lines in coloured hues.

I’d rather be made first, as original;
And not a duplicate from a bone
Out of several tens of such.

I’d rather keep my chains on pet cat
Or wild dog than wear them - remnants
of Aaron’s dead altar and White human trade.

I’d rather pump than be pumped (to a bulge).
I’d rather love whomever than be chased.
I’d rather be the man than be his lost rib.