The woman’s voice is locked up in the academic circle

Within the humanities and arts like a tightly woven girdle

What about the sciences of chemistry, mathematics and physics

Where men still rules the literature of the ages

As I flick through the endless pages

All the stories born from one sex

With a stubborn and ridged reflex

Against people with a different gender

Whose minds can do quite a bender

So where are the books by Mary, Anne and Sue

Or Charlotte, Maisey and Kathleen too?

Why can’t I find an author with a name of a flower

Like Rose, Lily or Daisy

Or Poppy, Petunia or Pansy

Or perhaps names from herbs and spices

Rosemary, Sage and Cinnamon, though she might have some peculiar vices

Is it so difficult for a woman to write a book?

They sit for hours sipping tea and chatting about some new look!

Can’t they talk about something else

For instance about the stars, or how fast the earth does spin?

Or at least about the Moon and how the tide is coming in.

Where are the women who use their mind, heart and soul

For mathematical quandaries to quantify the shadow of a pole

Where are the women who know how to calculate

More than the bank teller’s books, keeping them up-to-date

Why are so few vaginas interested in academic pursuit

Or in the calculating sciences to boot

And only those deemed ugly and fat by men are worthy of academic note

And one day perhaps a man might then quote

Only if the men feel threatened by sexuality

Will they kick women to the curb as a mad monstrosity

But this starts not just in university

It began long ago when he thought she was an adversity

Instead of a colleague, a friend or an independent thinker

He labels her mad, while he madly does tinker

Women’s stories are still locked up in cages

While they vomit through school in their teen ages

Or cough up their throat with tonsillitis

Even damaging their voice with acute bronchitis

Or suffering an overactive thyroid and irregular breathing

Leading to poor dental hygine and teething

All symptoms of a lost soul

Where there should be a voice, there is a cavernous hole

So if you are wondering why your little star is miserable and sick

Perhaps you should shut up and listen to her heart tick

Don’t look at the clock, or get up to leave in a hurry

But sit and listen to each other; whatever you do, do not worry

Giving space and allowing each other a turn

They you can feel what the heart truly does yearn