Folks, I am a Wussy Boy.
I loved this poem in High School. It's by a well know Slam Poet, Big Poppa E, aka Erik Ott. I read it for a UIL competition back in the day. It was me and I loved expressing myself out loud with this one. Enjoy.
The Wussy Boy Manifesto
My name is Eirik Ott
And I am a Wussy Boy.
It’s taken me a long time to admit it.
I remember shouting out in high school,
“ No, Dad, I’m not gay! I’m just… sensitive.
I tried to like jet planes and hot rods
and football and Budweiser poster girls
but I never got the hang of it!
I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”
And then, I saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music of The Cure,
Morrisey and Siouxsie and the Banshees,
walking loud and talking proud
my Wussy Boy icon:
Duckie in Pretty in Pink.
And I realized I wasn’t alone.
I looked around and saw other Wussy Boys
living large and proud of who they were:
Anthony Michael Hall, Wussy Boy;
Michael J. Fox, Wussy Boy; and
Lord God King of the Wussy Boy Movement,
Matthew Broderick,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys kick ass!
Now, I am no longer afraid
of my Wussiness, hell no,
I am empowered by it!
When I pull up to a stoplight
And some redneck testosterone
methamphetamine jock frat boy pulls up
beside me cranking his Trans Am’s stereo
with power chord anthems
to big tits and date rape,
I no longer avert my gaze, hell no,
I just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and I rock out right to his face:
“ I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does!”
I am Wussy Boy, hear me roar (meow).
Bar fight? Pshaww!
You think you can take me, huh,
just because I like poetry
better than Sports Illustrated?
Well, allow me to caution you
for I am not the average, every day,
run of the mill Wussy Boy you beat up
in high school, punk:
I am Wuss Core!
Don’t make me get Renaissance on your ass
because I WILL write a poem about you!
a poem that will tear your psyche limb from limb,
that will expose your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper than knives
and gats and baseball bats could ever hope to.
You may see 65 inches of Wussy Boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul
is ten feet tall and bulletproof!
Bring the pain, punk!
Beat the tar out of me!
Show everybody in this bar
what a real man can do,
but you’d better remember
that my bruises will fade,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem about the pitiful, small, helpless,
dumb-ass, no-neck oppressor you really are
will last forever.
--Big Poppa E
The Wussy Boy Manifesto
My name is Eirik Ott
And I am a Wussy Boy.
It’s taken me a long time to admit it.
I remember shouting out in high school,
“ No, Dad, I’m not gay! I’m just… sensitive.
I tried to like jet planes and hot rods
and football and Budweiser poster girls
but I never got the hang of it!
I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”
And then, I saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music of The Cure,
Morrisey and Siouxsie and the Banshees,
walking loud and talking proud
my Wussy Boy icon:
Duckie in Pretty in Pink.
And I realized I wasn’t alone.
I looked around and saw other Wussy Boys
living large and proud of who they were:
Anthony Michael Hall, Wussy Boy;
Michael J. Fox, Wussy Boy; and
Lord God King of the Wussy Boy Movement,
Matthew Broderick,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys kick ass!
Now, I am no longer afraid
of my Wussiness, hell no,
I am empowered by it!
When I pull up to a stoplight
And some redneck testosterone
methamphetamine jock frat boy pulls up
beside me cranking his Trans Am’s stereo
with power chord anthems
to big tits and date rape,
I no longer avert my gaze, hell no,
I just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and I rock out right to his face:
“ I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does!”
I am Wussy Boy, hear me roar (meow).
Bar fight? Pshaww!
You think you can take me, huh,
just because I like poetry
better than Sports Illustrated?
Well, allow me to caution you
for I am not the average, every day,
run of the mill Wussy Boy you beat up
in high school, punk:
I am Wuss Core!
Don’t make me get Renaissance on your ass
because I WILL write a poem about you!
a poem that will tear your psyche limb from limb,
that will expose your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper than knives
and gats and baseball bats could ever hope to.
You may see 65 inches of Wussy Boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul
is ten feet tall and bulletproof!
Bring the pain, punk!
Beat the tar out of me!
Show everybody in this bar
what a real man can do,
but you’d better remember
that my bruises will fade,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem about the pitiful, small, helpless,
dumb-ass, no-neck oppressor you really are
will last forever.
--Big Poppa E