Perhaps it was a bit naive of me
To believe we could enjoy a simple Sunday Tea
We sharpened our blades, preparing to slay
While the women remained out of sight

The beasts were finally tamed
Meat exchanged hands, from kraal to den
A celebration, yet commemorated in isolation
We rubbed our bellies in delight,
but from the den came only a faint chuckle

Would it have been sacrilegious
to exchange our blades for braids?
Would the beasts have noticed a difference,
if their tamers were not male?

After all, once the Sunday Tea was over,
what remained were homogenous food scraps

The distinction between he and she is nothing but a letter
If we continue to suppress this silent symbol,
we will always misinterpret supplements for contradictions
I look forward to a Sunday Tea with unified banter