Mater Lysistrata Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

Instead of Aristophanes, she calls me sweetly Fanes,
she enters the outpost, gets out only when she wants,
wakes me up from sleep, prepares a divine supper,
puts on everything, great things, even milk of a bird:
eggs, schnitzel and shrimps, oysters from Maldives
ham and vitamins, this and that, «my son, tell yes
to metal music, no to metallic bombs of war! »

Beware of Mater Lysistrata, may pull your eyes out
she holds the gun for me, guards in my place for me,
as eagle checkiing around, if the chief comes to inspect
in case he catches me, sleeping warmly in my outpost.
Who's going to judge me? She will react at once:
She will call other moms, will form nine platoons,
to clog the roads, projecting breasts and shoulders.
cursing the TV canals, the mess found in the army.

No one can hold her back; she is a real servant
of six generations – answer of Sphinx’s question-
from grandgrandkids to grandgrandmons, here,
there; she is a female Don Quixote, not at all a hero,
invites friends around her and tells to all seriously:

Your weapons I’ll melt, laughter I’ll give you instead.



© JosephJosephides