By No Means Is This Woman, Who I Am Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Her Stetson apparel had taken her thus far.
Oh, how she wishes she were a cinnabar moth.
An eye-dazzling beauty wearing silken red cloth
Black heels - rather than the protocol
'Steel-toed work boots, ' this is what she internally spoke.

But on-site, she too behaves like some burly, sexist bloke.
Shouting out the orders, ogling, whistling - no joke!
She gives as good as, if not better than, she gets.
And they, my friends, aren't sweet vignettes -
Quotes from the Bible, but she has no regrets.

Well, maybe only this one, the dress code.
Like lots of women, she wants to look her best and be glam.
Sit on the bonnet of a JCB, a red-hot siren.
'Read each passing man, his cardiogram…'
'Say, look, lads, by no means is this woman who I am.'