Fit to Judge

Title: Fit to Judge
by Catt Kingsgrave
Rating: Spicy, with Opinions and swear words.
Wordcount: 671
Genre: Lyric poetry
Author's notes: One too many Limbaugh apologists, and Clue goes off like a grenade. Pull the pin and watch her spin off like a ten-clawed quisinart of sarcastic death.
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Fit to Judge
by Catt Kingsgrave

You hear a lot, these days, about what folks are doing wrong
And every two bit pundit adds a chorus to the same old song
How that one’s wicked, that one’s wrong, and this one’s just plain sick
And not one single word on what it is that makes them tick
No single scrap of reason over just what it could be
Makes the ‘wicked,’ ‘wrong,’ and ‘sick’ feel that’s the best path they could see.
And when the likes of me are getting sloshed with righteous wrath,
It kinda makes me want to kick your skinny, privileged ass and tell you,

You ain’t fit to judge me, mister; you ain’t fit to know.
You never tried to put your foot into my shoe and walk, and so
You’ve no idea the time it takes to get a mile along
No, you ain’t fit to say you think I’m wrong!

So you don’t like my birth control, and you don’t like my choice
And you bible-swear your jihad is to be the unborn’s voice.
You call me slut and murderess, and filthy, lazy whore
But ‘welfare queen’s’ your name for those with kids they can’t afford!
And funny thing about it, is a rapist don’t much care
About a victim’s birth control, nor what he sires there.
So you can have the aspirin I won’t keep between my knees
And you know where to stick it when you find my choice don’t please

You ain’t fit to judge me, sister; you ain’t fit to bitch
You never had to see how far my paycheck has to stretch
You ain’t the one who works three jobs and still can’t get along
So you ain’t fit to say my choosing’s wrong!

So you don’t like my BMI; my waistline make you sick
You sling out ‘lardass,’ ‘slob,’ ‘obese,’ then snigger like a prick
My attitude ain’t suitable, cause I don’t seem ashamed
Nor hate myself enough for the unsightliness you’ve named
And when I strut, or when I dance, or I laugh right in your face
You’ll all but bust a vein trying to put me in ‘my place’
But there’s a million different factors in each metabolic play
And you look like an asshole when you claim the one true way

You ain’t fit to judge me, cousin; you ain’t fit to preach
Some fad you heard on Oprah don’t give you the right to teach
Your self-loathing to the masses with your privilege perched on top
No, you ain’t fit to be my fitness cop!

You don’t have to like my haircut, you don’t have to like my jeans
You don’t have to like my politics, my sex life, or my dreams.
My religion’s not your business, who I love is not your say
But this Christ you claim to speak for had some words, back in the day,
Bout camels, eyes of needles, and a miser’s heaven odds,
How Faith was not for sale, and what was Caesar’s was not God’s
And just who would do the judging when the run of life was through
And that book is pretty clear; the final say don’t fall to you

Cause you ain’t fit to judge me, neighbor; you ain’t fit to throw
A single stone at folks like me, cause deep inside, you know
You and I, we ain’t so different, and your sins weigh just as much
And your moral high-ground soapbox is tilting a bit much

No, you ain’t fit to judge me, but just set that gavel by
And listen when you listen, don’t just plan your next reply
I bet you lunch between us we can find some common sense
Once we cut through all the bullshit
and the rhetoric and dogma
And the soundbyte blame and ugly names
And finger-pointing quagmires
And the shock jocks and the stooges
And the lobbyists and scrooges
And act as if there’s more between the two of us
Alike, than difference.
But that’s just my two cents.