Oi. Ginge

Oi. Ginge.

Yes. You. Ginge.

Sling that word at me: ginger.

Just know you'll never injure my pride.

Because I'm proud and ginger.

So let that linger on your mind while I give you a piece of mine.

Yes, I'm a ginge.

But not so unhinged that I can't take the time to educate you.

For once you were blind, but soon you will see.

That secretly you'd dye to be just like me.

Yes. My hair's on fire.

But we both know that's what you too, desire.

Because your non-burning locks are black, brown, blonde, boring.

And let's not be ignoring the fact that there are 7.7 billion of you.

But I represent just 1% of the planet and you can't stand it.

Which is why you sling your rocks made of insecurity and immaturity.

Oi wotsit. Oi fire crotch. Oi tampon top.

We the people you stare too long at.

We the ginger.

Consider this us giving you the finger.

For your teasing and tormenting is displeasing and unrelenting.

Oi. Ginge.

Yes. You. Ginge.

Ginger hair.

Ginger armpits

Ginger pubes.

Let's close this loop.

Not red.

Not auburn.

Not strawberry blonde.

It's ginger.

Ginger and proud.

Ginger and loud.

We are the English rose.

What you tease because you want.

What you hate because you'll never be.

No matter how hard you try to hide it every one of us knows.

That behind your verbal jabs and social blows,

you long to be one of us, touch one of us, love one of us.

In a thousand lives in a thousand times we will be the butt of your joke.

Yet all the while we know never has a more jealous word been spoke.