Partway between a sashay and a lumber,
With big stomping feet, t’would wake giants from slumber,
With rectangular frame and angular hips,
Signature smirk on their thin worm-like lips,
With big meaty paws and big manly jaws,
All stubbly and scratchy like a brillo pad or gauze,
All plastered and painted in likeness of a clown;
Behold! A train has pulled into town.
Their posture a parody of gauche femininity,
It more suggests some kind of acute spasticity.
Their attire is garish, which they mistake for girlish.
But don't dare point all this out or else they'll get churlish,
Spitting their spite right into your face,
No sense of proportion or personal space.
All to be expected whenever one oppugns
The fragile delusions of insufferable troons.
Or worse, they’ll opt for whining and whimpering,
Summoning handmaidens, already simpering.
Obscene waterworks, hysterical crying:
"Don't you know that we're LITERALLY DYING?!?"
And now you're beset by their neon-haired goons,
Desperate try-hards and brain-rotted loons,
Behind paper-thin avatars of Japanese cartoons,
The telltale handiwork of insufferable troons.
They pick names like ‘Luna’, ‘Lilith’ and ‘Lila’,
‘Morgana’, ‘Aurora’ ‘Jasmine’ and ‘Delilah’,
‘Rose’ and ‘Ruby’, ‘Crystal’, and ‘Chloe’,
‘Alexa’ and ‘Artemis’, ‘Nerissa’ and ‘Zoe’.
They must think these names make them seem so unique,
Or that they convey some kind of feminine mystique.
Dainty and delicate, graceful and pretty,
Sassy and saucy, and of course, oh-so-witty.
A pity for them, then, that these tricks on the ear,
Fall tragically flat when in the flesh they appear.
These dainty names serve only to emphasise,
The ungainly sight that befalls all our eyes,
The false falsetto that comes out when they speak,
Not a cute little girl so dainty and meek,
But an insufferable troon! A mismatched freak!
So much for that feminine mystique…
Catty and bratty and snidey and rude,
Sneering and leering and creepy and crude,
Boldly lascivious, brazenly lewd,
All red flags of a sick twisted dude.
But when those flags are attached to a man in a dress,
We're suddenly colourblind, or so they profess!
When they show us their lifestyles so sordid and squalid,
We're meant to applaud them and tell them they're ‘valid’.
Constant approval they claim as their right,
Its enforcement a ceaseless cultural blight.
As they’d say on Tumblr: ‘I don't have the spoons’,
To suffer any more these insufferable troons.
With bananas in their knickers, and apples in their necks,
These insufferable troons pester lesbians for sex!
These women then face a terrible dilemma:
Do I start dating men when they call themselves Emma?
Or do I rebuff them and provoke their frustration,
Their whining and pestering, no chance of placation?
If only they could just lay down the law:
That no pronouns can disguise a big manly jaw,
That it matters not if it's inside a frock,
Most gay women do not desire a cock,
That brains don't see gender, they just see a bloke.
To claim otherwise is ludicrous, a farce, and a joke.
But this joke has no punchline, besides the very real peril
Of being punched, scratched and kicked by a bloke named Cheryl,
While he's cheered on by an army of buffoons
Who bow to the whims of insufferable troons.
But it's not only 'girldick' that they want to push
On women who reject the stick for the bush.
No, some will proclaim there's no body part finer
That that rancid wound they call a neovagina.
They pay butchers and quacks to slice their nut sacks,
And stitch into flaps that the male form lacks.
This pseudo-labia surrounds an orifice most foul:
An inverted penis with a piece of the bowel,
A surgical mockery, a vagina lampooned,
Known colloquially as the poopwound.
For these frankenpussies often secrete
A foul fecal stench, with a touch of spoiled meat.
These man-made horrors, these lovecraftian maws,
Are supposedly intended to reliably cause
The men and women who prefer carpet to wood
To be suddenly convinced of the womanhood
Of a sad, psychotic, big beefcake tranny,
With a nasty, necrotic and fetid fake fanny!
But be it girldicks or sad pseudo-poons,
You don't fool us, you insufferable troons!
Mincing and malding and balding and bleating,
And throwing out threats of assault or self-yeeting,
Poncing, parading, prancing and preening,
They think they can waltz up and alter the meaning
Of ‘woman’, ‘lesbian’, ‘gender’ and ‘straight’,
And we all must comply or be accused of ‘hate’.
For woe betide thee who will not call he she:
You may lose your living, even your liberty!
And so they strong arm us into dancing this dance,
All so they can get into lefty girls' pants.
In lust they're bonobos, in wrath, baboons:
These intolerable trannies, these insufferable troons.
Understandably, some women have decided
That protecting their rights is worth being derided
As reactionary bigots and horrible fascists,
And so have stood up to these bully fetishists.
Be it a hounded professor at a symposium,
Or a free speech rally with the speaker at the podium,
Wherever there be gender criticals speaking,
They will be met with hysterical shrieking
As the horde lays siege to the event:
The troons and their goons, with malicious intent,
Brandishing signs and flags and banners,
And weapons: clubs, sticks, bats and hammers,
A few hidden knives, detritus to hurl,
At those who will not call a grown man a girl.
Alongside the troons are their most fervent backers,
Revolutionary larpers, all of them crackers.
The police and the counter-protesters attempt
To hold the line and protect the event,
But soon the barricades begin to give way,
And the loud verbal crossfire turns into a fray.
At some point during this deafening cacophony,
A pensioner is drop-kicked by a man named Persephone.
Wielding a club is dainty wee Freya,
T-shirt adorned with the words 'TERF SLAYER'
Coming to her aid is the delicate Celeste,
Gracefully punching a young woman in the chest,
While bottles, rocks, and rubbish rain down,
A brick thrown by Lulu splitting a teen's crown.
Charging through the barricades with a roar like thunder,
Daisy daintily tosses her enemies asunder.
Faye and Ophelia and two men all in black,
With hatchets and hammers begin their attack,
Hacking at faces, knees and crotches,
Bellatrix jumping with glee as she watches,
While Esmerelda, in a womanly manner,
Breaks a man's jaw with one blow of a spanner.
By now the police have lost all grip on this mess,
Too scared of the lawyers and much of the press.
They urge the speaker to evacuate,
But by then, it's already too late.
With a bellowing cry of "TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN!!!",
Minerva bashes a lesbian's head in.
A friend tries to save the lesbian's life,
But alluring Lucille has brought her penknife,
Stabbing her right in her evil TERF eyes;
Just as the police are able to prise
The belligerents apart, Trixabelle lunges:
Into an old gay man's heart, a screwdriver plunges.
The police are too busy trying to hold Aphrodite,
Unfortunately for them, she's a little bit bitey.
Petunia grabs one foe by the hair,
And tips her out of her wheelchair;
Trans warrior Athena, all ladylike,
Bravely curb-stomps the prone paralysed dyke.
Finally, the speaker is being ushered away,
But nearby a cry rings out, clear as day:
"F*CKING DIE YOU TERF C**T!!!" in deep baritone,
And before anyone can act, a projectile is thrown,
By the hero of the hour, the valiant Feminina!
With so much going on, nobody has seen her
Flanking the fracas, then hurling something red,
Straight into that dastardly feminist's head.
Its casing shattering, shards cutting the skin,
Its contents splattering, seeping their way in:
A cocktail of veritable girly juices,
Released from her downstairs surgical sluices.
But Feminina had made a great sacrifice,
To ensure that this hell-queen paid the just price:
She had made her body a biological weapon,
By obtaining every known venereal infection!
And so the dragon was slain not with spears or blades,
But with that trusty old LGBT enemy: AIDS.
Feminina is felled, placed under arrest,
Managing one last quick fondle of a policewoman's breast.
And now, of course, the spoils of war,
For they can't buy lawyers: "we're all too poor!"
The GoFundMe's were already up in preparation,
So all you good allies can make your donations!
To the victim the spoils, they really have no shame.
With insufferable troons, that's always their game.
How long will it take before the dam starts to break?
How long 'til this house of cards starts to shake?
How long before the empress' nudity is apparent,
Her tits bolted on and her vagina non-existent?
It's baffling, puzzling, oh so very strange,
That it takes so much grotesquery before these winds start to change,
But I'm cautiously hopeful that in time, fairly soon,
We'll have all had enough of insufferable troons.
